


Dance with Death

by LadyRa



Series: Dance with Death [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Supernatural
Genre: Because Methos and Crowley like blood, Because he is staying dead, Dean Needs A Hug, Highlander AU before Ahriman Millenium Champion arc, I needed Dean majorly adrift, Kinky blood and death sex between immortal characters, M/M, SPN AU pre Leviathan arc, So don't read it if you can't deal with that, Spoiler tag: I kill Sam Winchester in this story.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:56:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2580590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRa/pseuds/LadyRa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first story in this series, Deal with a Devil, now morphs into a much larger universe, where Methos and Crowley continue to woo each other,  Duncan is an ass, Death is a little sweet on Dean, and Dean finds himself a very unexpected family.</p><p>This story takes place after Lucifer is dead, Sam has gotten his soul back courtesy of Death, but is seeing Lucifer and flames everywhere he looks, and is going bat-shit crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the 3rd and last WIP I will be posting, at least until I do a lot of writing on other stories and they reach over 50 pages. I have quite a lot already written on this one, but it is not done. It will be long. It's 110 pages and I'm just barely moving into plot.
> 
> Feel free to point out typos and continuity gaffes. If you're not liking the story, please hit the back button and go find something else to read. For those of you who stay to enjoy the ride: HAVE FUN!

A month later:

Dean frowned as his brother flinched from something Dean couldn't see, and was oblivious to something he sure as hell needed to see. "God damn it, Sam, duck!"

Sam at least obeyed him, but it was close. A very sharp, very jagged piece of metal flew over Sam right where his neck had been a moment ago.

"What the fuck are these things?" Dean yelled, glad to see Sam, at least momentarily, getting his head back in the game, literally and figuratively. 

Dean had thought he'd seen everything, but whatever these things were, they weren't your run of the mill angry spirits. Every time Dean got off a good shot, they split in two like an amoeba, and the bullet slammed into whatever was behind them causing Dean and Sam to dance around each other to ensure they didn’t shoot each other by mistake. And to make things worse, they stayed split and then they had two instead of one. They'd gone from the original four into dozens, and they hadn't even dented one.

Dean missed Castiel at times like this; it was handy having an angel on call to save their asses, but he'd vanished shortly after Sam got his soul back, all the angels called back to heaven.

"We need to get out of here," Sam yelled back. "We're just making it worse."

True enough, but Dean hated running away from a fight. On the other hand, they'd just end up dead if they stuck around. "Go!" he cried, his hand waving at Sam to lead the way.

Two minutes later they were outside the so-called haunted house, watching lights flick on and off as crackles of electricity run all over the outside of the house. Nothing tried to follow them out.

"Jesus Christ," Dean said, catching his breath. "What the fuck?"

Sam stood there watching the house. "I got nothing. I never even heard of anything like what these things are and can do."

"I can't believe we're not dead," Dean mused; there'd been too many close calls in a very short period of time.

"Maybe they didn't want to kill us," Sam offered.

"Yeah, like that metal thing wasn't about to take your head off," Dean sniped. "And what was that all about? You taking a nap or something? Need some beauty sleep?"

Sam shot him a look.

Dean was immune to any look Sam had. Plus, he had a pretty good idea what was going on. "Hell?"

That got a startled look. "What?"

"Is it hell? Memories of hell? You can talk about it, you know. I've been there." He smirked a little unhappily. "Literally."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Yeah, I get that, but maybe you should."

"Like you did, you mean?"

"I did talk about it. I told you what happened to me, and I'll bet you didn't do what I ended up doing," Dean snapped. Sam would have held out longer than Dean any day and that meant his time in hell in no way could have been as horrible as Dean's was, because Dean now knew something terrible about himself, about the depravity he had deep down inside, that he fervently wished he didn't.

"No, but they weren't gunning for me that way," Sam said, more sympathetically than Dean deserved. "They needed you to fall, Dean. They didn't care about me."

"Is it the flames? I saw flames a lot when I got out." Sam was right; normally Dean would rather have a root canal than talk about any of this stuff, but he needed to know if Sam was capable of hunting right now. He didn't just get his brother back to lose him to stupidity.

Sam headed for the car, face grim. "Yeah, okay? I keep seeing flames. They feel like they're right there, all around me. I can even feel the heat."

"Sucks," was Dean's only comment. "How often is it happening?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Come on, Sam. I need to know what I'm dealing with here."

This time the look was lethal. "I'm fine. At least I'm not trying to drown it with alcohol."

Ouch. Dean guessed he deserved that. After Castiel left, his drinking had gotten really bad until he was even going on hunts drunk, and Sam and Bobby had thrown him in the safe room and forced him sober. He got why Sam hated that room so much. He knew he'd been hallucinating, but he could have sworn he saw Death sitting on the end of his bed, shaking his head and tsking at him, saying, "You'll be reaped soon enough, Dean, no need to hurry it along. Things are so much more interesting with you alive."

Dean wasn't sure if that was inducement to get sober or to shoot himself and get it over and done with. Sometimes he thought of his conversations with Death and wondered how he'd survived them. He knew he was a smartass, and the more freaked out he was the more the insults poured out of his lips, and no one had freaked him out more than Death. Not death with a little d, because Dean was proof positive that you could survive that. But the big guy, Death himself, the one you couldn't fuck with, because he was the endgame. Every endgame. Even God's endgame to hear Death tell of it.

"Whatever," Dean finally said. "Just tell me when it's bad, so we can plan our hunts better, okay?"

Sam gave him a sullen nod.

Yeah, life was a barrel of laughs lately.

They got back to their hotel and Dean jumped in the shower. It felt like the world had taken a leak on him, and he wanted to wash it off. He left Sam on the phone, calling Bobby.

When he got out, feeling nominally better, Sam was just hanging up. "Bobby's never heard of them, either," Sam said. "He'll do some research and get back to us."

"Perfect," Dean said. "I love it when Bobby's never heard of something. Things always go so well for us when that happens."

Sam shrugged. "I'll research it, too."

"I wish Castiel was still around." 

Sam shot him a warning look. 

Yeah, so Dean had gotten a little attached to the feathery son of a bitch. "I’m just saying he was better than a supernatural encyclopedia."

Sam conceded the point, grabbed some clothes, and headed for his turn at the shower.

Dean pulled a t-shirt over his head and slipped on his last clean pair of jeans. Laundry had to get done sooner than later. He picked up the hotel brochure to see if they happened to have a laundry room. "Bingo." He pounded on the bathroom door.

"What?" snapped Sam.

"Throw me your clothes, bitch, I'll go do laundry." 

The door opened and clothes hit him in the face before it shut again.

"Asshole," Dean yelled through the door, imagining Sam giving him the finger in return, which, weirdly, made Dean feel better. He gathered his and Sam's clothes up, looked through all the pockets for change, and headed off to the laundry room.

By the time he got back, Sam was asleep. Dean thought about throwing his clothes on top of him, but then decided to cut his brother some slack. The bags under his eyes had had bags of their own recently and he could definitely use the sleep. Dean hated to use the word depressed because, shit, when weren't they depressed, but Sam had been in a world of hurt lately, and Dean hated it because there was jack shit he could do about it.

Dean sat down on his bed, picked up his dad's journal, and began to scour it for some missed piece of information about their current case. When that got him nowhere, he grabbed Sam's laptop and started to search on-line. He had a brainstorm just as Sam woke up.

*****

The next day, when Sam walked back into the hotel room, lunch in hand, Dean was already hard at work, all their spell ingredients covering the small desk. "What are you doing?" Sam asked Dean.

"I think we should summon Crowley and ask him what he knows," Dean said, checking out a jar, opening the lid and sniffing it. His head jerked back at the stench. "Whoa, what the hell is this shit?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Sam said, taking the jar from Dean, taking a whiff of his own. His face was pretty hilarious and Dean snorted. 

"Why not? He was actually not a complete asshole dealing with Lucifer. Face it, we'd all be Lucifer's butt monkeys without him."

"Doesn't mean he'll be happy to get summoned."

"I'm open to suggestions," Dean said. "We've got nothing on those fuckers, and they're due to kill someone else tonight and for the next four nights. And for all we know, now that there are a shit-ton more of them, they might need to kill a shit-ton more people. Crowley's all I can think of."

"Okay," Sam said reluctantly, "but if he's pissed, he's not going to help."

Dean waved that off. If he didn't help, they'd be no worse off. Hopefully. Maybe this was a mistake. He sat on the bed, summoning bowl in hand, wondering if there was someone else they could call. Jesus, he was tired of this. He and Sam, what a fucking pair they were.

*****

Methos' phone went off, and he reached out, searching blindly, until he found it and brought it to his ear. "Yeah?"

"Methos?" Joe asked. "Is that you?"

"Don't use my name over the phone," Methos grumped, but then added, "Yeah, it's me."

"You sound like I woke you up."

"So?"

"It's four o'clock in the afternoon."

Methos glanced at Crowley who was sleepily blinking up at him. "Did I ever thank you?" Methos said.

"For what?"

"For making a deal with a crossroads demon?" Methos grinned as Crowley smiled up at him, as he ran his hand down Methos' chest and wrapped his fingers around his cock, squeezing just a little.

There was a long pause, which gave Methos the time to close his eyes and fully enjoy the feeling of Crowley's expert caresses. Methos had slept with countless numbers of people, truly countless, men and women and even during a very disturbed time of his life and of the world, frankly, eons ago, some animals, but no one did sex like Crowley. Not even close. Maybe it was them together, because Crowley said the same thing. In so many ways it was like they were made for each other. 

Crowley knew everything Methos had done and didn't care. In fact, he loved Methos the more for it. That kind of absolution, even coming from what some might call a questionable source, was so unique, so unexpected, that it still made Methos lightheaded. Giddy. 

"About that, um, do you think you could come to the bar? I need to talk to you."

"Sure," Methos said, although he was frowning when he said it. Something was up. "What's going on?"

"Are you still, uh, seeing that demon?"

Methos grinned. "In so many ways." 

Joe grunted. "More than I needed to know. Anyway, bring him, too."

That got a deeper frown. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Mac wants to meet him."

"Forget it," Methos said. "I can already tell you that Mac won't approve, and I'm not in the mood for his preaching."

"He'll just go out and look for you," Joe said. "You know how he gets."

"Yes, I do," Methos said hotly. "Tell him to mind his own business."

"Please," Joe said. "For me. Put me out of my misery."

Methos wasn't sure this was a good idea at all. "Hold on," he said, putting the phone on mute. He glanced down at Crowley who had stopped stroking him and had his eyebrows up in question.

"What's the matter?" Crowley asked. "You need me to smite someone?"

That surprised a laugh out of Methos. "Time to meet the in-laws. You up for it? I'm not sure they won't have something unpleasant waiting for us. This smacks of an intervention."

"Joe, I assume, and Mac is the prim and proper ass you told me about?"

Methos nodded. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

Crowley rubbed his hands together. "Sounds like fun. If he makes me mad, I can, oh, I don't know, snap his dick away, right?"

"I adore you," Methos said. "And yes, but then you have to give it back." He grinned, having evil thoughts. "Later."

"Spoil sport." Crowley leaned down, kissed Methos' cock, told it, "We'll play tonight," and then rolled out of bed. 

Methos released the mute button and said, "What time do you want us there?"

"Before the bar opens? In about an hour?"

"We can do that." As far as Methos knew, there was nowhere Crowley couldn't get them within seconds and a snap of his fingers. Methos was coming to love those fingers, in more ways than one. "And Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"Please don't be planning anything stupid."

There was a pause. "I hear you." Joe hung up.

Methos didn't find that reassuring at all.

*****

Using his default what-the-fuck attitude to make his decision, Dean placed all the ingredients they'd need on the table. Then he went to the car and got out their new handy-dandy portable pentagram they'd painted on a large rug. That went down on the floor covering the hotel room's carpeting. Sam started reluctantly measuring out ingredients while Dean found the proper incantation.

*****

"Are you sure I have to go?" whined Crowley. He’d clearly had a change of heart.

"No, in fact I'm sure you don't need to go," Methos told him. "In fact-"

"Oh, now you're ashamed of me, is that it?"

Methos started to grin. "You are such a needy bitch."

"You know it, baby," Crowley said, smoothing out his tie. "How do I look?"

"Way overdressed for this crowd." And it was true. Crowley looked gorgeous in another black suit, with a maroon shirt and tie. "On the other hand, you look good enough to eat. Let me guess, the red's for blood?"

"My favorite color. Other than black. Although I've suddenly found myself quite partial to hazel and brown."

Methos smirked at him. "Nice to know I don't have to be bleeding or charred to a crisp to appeal."

"Hey, on the way back I need to stop off in hell, make sure everyone's behaving themselves. You want to come with?"

"To hell?" Methos eyebrows shut up. 

"Don't you want to see where I work?" 

Methos burst out laughing. Jesus, he loved this guy. It was amazing how little Crowley being King of Hell seemed to intrude on their time together. Of course being able to get everywhere with a snap of fingers saved a lot of travel time. And for all Methos knew, Crowley worked while he slept, or slipped through a different dimension of time. "I'd love to go see hell, but do me a favor and just show me the ones who really deserve to be there, would you? Otherwise I might feel the need to rescue a few."

"Bleeding heart. Stupid people who sell their souls, for the most part, deserve what they get."

"I'm amazed you put a caveat on that."

"Well, that is how we met, isn't it?" Crowley said, shooting his cuffs, and checking his jacket collar. "And you certainly don't deserve to spend eternity in queues, not when you could be warming my bed."

"I imagine some people make deals to save someone they love."

Crowley snorted. "Yeah, ask Dean Winchester how that works out."

"That's not the first time you've mentioned him. Is he your version of the in-laws?"

"Bite your tongue," Crowley bit out. 

Methos suspected Dean Winchester was sort of a something to Crowley. Some love/hate thing that impacted Crowley more than he let on. Methos was just starting to hear about the last couple of years, about the almost apocalypse, just how close it came. And he also knew that Crowley played a large part in its not happening. So did Dean Winchester. "An enemy of my enemy, and all that?" Methos guessed.

"Something like that," Crowley admitted. "Although it's best just to leave most of the country between us at all times."

"Does he know how to kill you?"

Crowley's pissed-off expression was answer enough. Although, what Crowley said was, "He knows how to try."

"I want to know how, and then I want us to make sure it never happens," Methos told him firmly.

"Your words to my ears," Crowley said with a tight grin. He held up his fingers, ready to snap. "Should we just pop in?"

"Why not?" Methos said. "It'll start things off with a bang." He wished he still didn't think this was a bad idea. "Crowley?" At Crowley's inquisitive eyebrow rise, he said, "Stay on your toes, okay?"

"Like a ballerina." And, for just a second, Crowley was wearing a pink tutu complete with toe shoes, doing a pas de dux and then he was back in black.

Snickering, Methos said, "Thanks, I needed that."

"You know I'll smite them if they do anything to you? Right?"

"I know," Methos said. But that wasn't what he was concerned about. Joe hadn't been happy about his relationship with Crowley from the very beginning. The only thing that reassured him was that he couldn't imagine that Joe or Mac knew a way to kill a demon. Methos had been doing his best to tease the information out of Crowley so as to better protect him, but had only netted him some grumbled information about a knife and angels. Oh, and that comment about Dean Winchester.

Crowley walked over to him and put his hands around his neck, muttering something in Latin, with a few extra guttural consonants thrown in that Methos did not understand. The Latin words were about protection. "What was that?"

"I happen to like your head where it is. That will keep it there, at least for the time being. I need to find a more permanent spell. And I will," he added, shaking his finger at the universe at large as if it was arguing with him. 

"Better than a diamond ring," Methos quipped, pulling Crowley in for a kiss. It was surprisingly easy to fall in love with someone who couldn't die and who didn't come with all the Immortal baggage of The Game. Crowley had laughed quite loudly when Methos had explained that ridiculous thing to him.

"Do you have the place in your head?" Crowley asked. Methos nodded, and Crowley snapped his fingers.

*****

Crowley rolled his eyes when they arrived, seeing immediately what Methos had been nervous about. There were only two of them, Joe and another man whom Crowley assumed was Duncan MacLeod. There was garlic on the table, and Crowley was pretty sure Joe had a silver knife sitting in front of him.

"First of all," Crowley said, "you've got all your myths mixed up. Garlic is for vampires and a silver knife is for werewolves. However, if a vampire were here, he'd use the garlic to make a nice spaghetti sauce, and that silver knife would just piss off a werewolf."

"Garlic doesn't work?" Joe asked, looking chagrined.

"As a vampire deterrent?" Crowley asked. "No."

Not amused, Methos snapped out, "Seriously? What the hell is this?" He grabbed the knife and sent it flying across the room to land, like a dart, right into Joe's liquor license, shattering the glass. The garlic met a similar fate, smacking against the front door and falling to the floor. "Crowley, let's go." He grabbed Crowley's arm.

Mac stood up. "I'm Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod, and I want to know what magical geis you've put Methos under."

"Mac," Methos began.

MacLeod held a hand up. "I'm talking to the demon. I know Methos would never consort with a demon willingly. He left his past in the past where it belongs. So what did you do to him?"

"Oh my God," Crowley said, looking at Methos. "And you call this prig a friend? He doesn't know you at all, does he?"

"No," Methos agreed, "but he never really wanted to."

Quickly drawing his sword, looking righteously offended, MacLeod was an imposing sight, but Crowley wasn't impressed. He just waited to see what the prig would do next. What he wasn't expecting, and neither was MacLeod considering the priceless look of surprise on his face, was for Methos to draw his own sword, looking furiously determined and pissed as hell at being put in this position. Jesus, the man was like sex on a stick.

"Mac," Methos commanded. "Put your sword away."

"My fight's not with you," MacLeod said to Methos.

He was all so boringly reasonable. Crowley wasn't sure how Methos hadn't dried up and blown away hanging around with this sanctimonious prick. 

"He has done some trickery towards you. He will either release you or die," the Scotsman droned on.

Methos moved to stand in front of Crowley. "I won't ask again. Put your sword away." Crowley almost came in his pants. He was this close to snapping his fingers and getting both him and Methos to a bed, naked. Or a table if one was closer. Maybe this table. He put his hand out to give it a shake, to assess how steady it was.

"You know you can't best me," MacLeod insisted.

"I can."

"You never have," MacLeod said, almost fondly. 

Methos smiled his death grin, Crowley's favorite. "That's because when I spar with you, I spar as Adam. You have never fought against me. I will win." There was no doubt in his voice. "I always win. It's why I'm still alive."

Joe looked like he was about to have a heart attack. Too bad he didn't sell his soul for a stronger heart, Crowley snickered to himself. 

"Wait, wait a minute," Joe stuttered, putting his hands up as if to broker a truce. "This has gotten way out of hand. Mac, put your damn sword away. I never-"

"Do you deny you are a demon?" MacLeod asked Crowley, cutting off Joe.

"Nope. And quite an important one, too," Crowley said with a smug grin. "But if you're thinking I did anything to Methos, you'd be wrong. He's with me because he wants to be. And if you think anyone could trick him into anything, you clearly don't know him at all."

Crowley never saw it coming. One moment he was standing there, enjoying the farce, and the next MacLeod threw a bowl of holy water at him. He let out an involuntary scream as his skin began to bubble and steam.

"What the fuck did you do?" yelled Methos, striking at MacLeod, drawing first blood, slicing deeply into his sword arm so MacLeod dropped his sword, startled into a gasp. Methos drew his sword back and Crowley, in the midst of the pain--serious pain, kill the motherfucking asshole pain--waited for Methos to kill the fucker, bracing himself for the quickening that Methos had told him about.

Then, even in the midst of his pain, and his anticipation of seeing MacLeod become several inches shorter, Crowley remembered something Methos had told him about quickenings. Crowley couldn't believe he was even spending a second worrying about Joe's wellbeing, but he knew Methos would never forgive himself. And no matter how Crowley loved guilt, he actually, disturbingly, loved Methos more. He yelled, "Methos, don't! You'll kill Joe." He put a blistered hand on Methos' shoulder to try to stop his downward blow.

*****

Dean lit a match and threw it in the bowl. He and Sam waited expectantly, heavily armed. Sam had Ruby's knife, and they seriously had to come up with another name for it rather than that back-stabbing skanky ho, and Dean had the Colt.

He expected a pissed-off Crowley. What he wasn't expecting, at all, was Crowley with his face and hands blistering and sizzling, and some crazed guy with a sword, about to cut Sam in two.

"Holy shit!" Dean yelled, and he shot the guy, shooting him in the shoulder, trying not to kill the human vessel. When nothing happened, other than the man reeling back, pulling back his sword in confusion, Dean hollered at Sam a second too late, "Wait, he's human!" before Sam thrust the demon knife into his heart. 

Right before the guy died, he somehow managed to use his sword to cut through the pentagram and, considering the guy was spitting out blood and really, already dead, it was an impressive feat. Dean could respectfully acknowledge that, even as he cursed the guy as Crowley lifted his hands and shot Sam and Dean across the room to slam against the walls and stick there, helpless, like bugs on flypaper. Next time he'd listen to Sam and come up with a new plan. Assuming they got a next time.

Then, while Dean's head was still reeling with the unexpected last few moments, he saw something even more amazing. Crowley grabbed the dying man and assisted him to the ground, holding him tenderly. "I got you," he said, as he pulled the knife out of the man's chest, putting it on the floor with a hateful glare at Sam.

Sam caught Dean's eye, his lifted eyebrows clearly communicating the 'what-the-fuck' Dean was feeling.

Crowley just sat there, holding the guy, while Dean thought of something to say that might make Crowley not kill them. But seeing as this guy was important to Crowley, and they'd just killed him, Dean didn't think anything he had to say would matter much. The demon was no doubt waiting for his buddy to die before he decimated Dean and Sam.

Dean fought against Crowley's hold to no avail, his jaw dropping when the guy, instead of staying dead, gasped and drew in a deep breath, coming back to life. So, not human. But not a demon either, the way he cut through the pentagram.

"Hey," Crowley said to the guy with a grin. "Fun times, yeah?"

"What the hell?" the guy said back to Crowley, but he didn't sound too annoyed, which Dean took as a good thing. "How'd we get here?" He ran a hand over Crowley's face where the blisters were slowly healing. "Sorry about that. I really didn't think he'd go so crazy."

"Same here," Crowley said, his fingers over the guy's heart as blue lightening raced over his chest and shoulder, over both wounds. "And as for how we got here," he explained, sparing a moment to glare at Dean and Sam, "Meet the bloody Winchesters who decided this was the perfect time to summon me." His glower morphed into a smirk. "Although, in this particular case, it was actually good timing." He waved his hand, and Sam and Dean fell to the floor.

Crowley snapped his fingers and the Colt was in his hand, which he put down next to the knife. "Meet two things that could possibly kill me," he told the man, "or at least make a good dent."

Dean stupidly preened for a moment, thinking Crowley was talking about him. Then he realized Crowley was pointing at the weapons. "What the fuck, Crowley," Dean snapped, "and who's your friend?"

"A more respectful tone, if you please," Crowley warned and then, to Dean's utter bemusement, grinned and swept his hand toward Methos, "Meet Methos, the old ball and chain."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your Thanksgiving installment to this story! I'm planning on doing installments on all three of my WIPs tonight. Next installment? Probably closer to Christmas. I need to do some serious writing and then I have to have time to read what I wrote several times before I'm okay with posting.

Methos rolled his eyes.

Dean's jaw dropped again. "You're married? To a guy?"

"Not yet," Crowley said. "I'm working on it, though."

Methos kissed him. "The answer's yes when you work it out."

Dean felt the immediate need to wash his eyes out with soap. "What?" He glanced at Sam whose eyes were bugging out of his head. "What are you?" Dean asked Methos.

"None of your damn business," Crowley said. He stood, helping Methos to his feet. "And what the hell do you want? I told you I'd kill you if you summoned me again."

"You just said it was good timing," Dean pointed out.

"That was a few minutes ago, and I'm done being grateful."

"I'm Methos, although I go by Adam Pierson out in the real world," the guy said, introducing himself. "Nice to meet you, although I'm not sure why you felt the need to kill me." That was directed at Sam. "At least he," and that was punctuated with a thumb over his shoulder at Dean, "shot me in the shoulder."

"I’m sorry?" Sam said. Dean got that, it was hard to be sure without knowing what the guy was.

"PhD," Adam said. "Linguistics and Ancient History."

"Come again?" Dean said.

"My degree. I teach. Or at least I did." He furrowed his brow at Crowley. "How long have we been together? I've lost track of time."

"A month," Crowley said.

"So, I suspect they've fired me by now."

"The sex was worth it though, right?" Crowley asked, grinning.

"Absolutely. There will always be another job." He pulled Crowley in by his tie and kissed him quickly. "I really am sorry," he added, as he gently touched one of the few remaining blisters. He was healing quickly.

"Who holy-watered you?" Dean asked.

"A friend--"

"Ex-friend," Adam cut in. "At least for the time being; and there will be much groveling involved to get back in my good graces."

"Of Methos," Crowley finished. "So, now that we've all been introduced," Crowley began.

"I haven't introduced myself," Sam said. "Sam Winchester, and sorry for killing you. That's my brother, Dean."

Adam seemed to take a long look at Dean, although he had no idea why. 

"Why aren't you dead, exactly?" Dean asked.

"Good question," Crowley said, "and none of your business. Besides, you've both been dead a time or two and are still around to tell the tale. What're a few deaths between friends?"

Dean decided he'd figure it out later. 

Sam, though, just to fuck with Dean, said, out of the fucking blue, "I think Death likes Dean."

"Excuse me?" Crowley asked, his eyebrows up. "Death, Death? The big guy with the scythe, Death?"

"Very funny, Sam, you're a riot." The entire idea made Dean's mind short-circuit. 

"I'm serious," Sam said, although the smirk on his face put a lie to that. "He came to visit Dean when he was…"

Dean shot Sam a glare strong enough to eviscerate him.

Sam finished, "…when he was sick a while back. And he gave me my soul back just because Dean asked."

"Sam, shut the fuck up," Dean growled. "And I didn't just ask. He made me be him for a day, and we all know how well that went."

"I don't," Crowley said, snapping his fingers and sitting down on the love seat he conjured. "Tell all, Dean. I've been dying for some juicy gossip." He glanced at Sam, peered at his chest for a moment. "And just between you and me, Sam, your soul is looking a bit the worse for wear."

"Tell me about it," Sam muttered.

"Care to sell it to me? I could give you ten awesome years!"

"No!" both Sam and Dean yelled.

"Tsk, tsk," Crowley said. "It's not like I made you sell your soul," he pouted at Dean.

"You sold your soul?" Methos asked Dean. "Really?"

"It was to bring him," Crowley said, pointing at Sam, "back from the dead. How's that been working out for you, by the way, Sam? I never did ask."

This time Sam's glare was lethal.

Methos put his hand on Crowley's arm, and Crowley huffed. "Fine. You never let me have any fun." But then he grinned and kissed Methos. "See, you might convert me yet." He whispered loudly to Sam, "Not so good, huh?"

"Shut the hell up," Dean interrupted anything Sam might have said. "I get that I fucked up, okay? I get that Sam's paid a thousand times over for not staying dead, I get it."

"Dean," Sam started.

"Our lives suck. Are you happy? If there's anything Death taught me, and it isn't that he's sweet on me no matter what Sam says, is that what's dead should stay dead."

Methos flinched a little.

"He doesn't mean you," Crowley said, with a little pat on Methos' knee. "So let me see if I've got this right. You asked Death for a favor and he just did it? Death? I mean I get why he gave you the ring; that was to get Lucifer off his back, but Sam's soul? He is totally sweet on you."

"See?" Sam said. "And he brings him fast food. What's that about?"

"Good taste," Dean bit out. "And it's not like he could be sweet on anyone. If you touch him you die."

"That could put a hamper on the whole sex thing," Methos said.

"Yeah, that would suck," Crowley agreed.

Methos touched Crowley's face, turning it left and then right. "You're all healed up. I swear to God, I'm taking his head next time I see him. And then he'll stay dead."

"Don't do that. I mean as much as I'm swooning at the thought of you defending my virtue, you'll regret it. Much more fun having him be alive so you can rub our relationship in his face."

Methos grinned. "You're so evil. I love it."

Crowley grinned back before returning his gaze to Sam. "So, back to Death and Dean."

"Shut the fuck up about Death and me," Dean hollered. "There is no Death and me."

"I think the man doth protest too much," Methos said in sotto voice to Crowley.

"Fuck my life," Dean said, sitting down on the bed. "Could you at least conjure up something to eat if you're going to make my life miserable?"

"Hey," Crowley complained, "you conjured me."

"And saved your ass, sounds like," Dean pointed out.

"At least your face," Methos agreed.

"Fine," Crowley said, snapping his fingers, and four pizza boxes appeared, along with 3 six-packs.

"Those have to go," Sam said.

Crowley leered at Dean. "Sure I can't tempt you?"

"Coke," Sam said firmly, arms across his chest.

The six-packs disappeared and an entire soda fountain machine appeared, with cups, lids, straws, ice, and several choices of soft drinks.

"Cool," Dean said, grabbing a cup and helping himself to a large Coke.

Sam and Methos followed suit, Methos getting Crowley a drink. They all dug into the pizza, Dean making noises of ecstasy. With his mouth full, he said, "This is fantastic pizza!" He glanced at the top of one of the boxes. He didn't recognize the name. 

"You can see why him and Death bond over fast food," Sam said dryly.

"There is no bonding!" Dean insisted. But Sam was grinning, and Sam didn't grin much anymore, so he decided to let it go, and maybe let Sam get a couple more digs in before he put a stop to it.

"What does he look like?" Crowley asked. "I barely got a look at him."

"Big nose," Sam said. "Sort of angular face. Kind of like Severus Snape."

Dean thought that was a good description. What Sam wasn't saying was the power that oozed out of the guy. It met you at the door and smacked you in the face, surrounding you the entire time he was in the room. It was horrible, and kind of a high, if Dean were to be honest. And it was kind of cool, in a stomach-knotting way, that Death knew his name, especially when Death thought everyone was as insignificant as a termite. Knowing someone's name had to count for something. 

Dean cleared his throat, took a long sip of his Coke, and decided he needed to get things back on track. "We need your help with some creatures. We don't know what they are or how to kill them. If they stick with their timetable, they'll kill tonight and tomorrow."

"And I care about this, why?" asked Crowley, licking some sauce off his fingers.

"Demon hunters!" Methos suddenly threw out as if he'd finally solved a problem. "How wonderfully ironic. You summoned a demon to help you kill other demons?"

"Like I said," Dean said, "fuck my life. Will you help?"

"Sure," Methos said, looking fascinated.

"Absolutely not," Crowley said at the same time, then frowned at Methos. "Sure?"

"I've never gone demon hunting."

Crowley stared at him. "Remember me? Demon?"

"You're different," Methos said.

"How, exactly?" Crowley asked.

"You're not actively trying to kill anyone," Methos said. "You like to tempt people, not kill them."

Dean opened his mouth to argue but found that he couldn't. He'd actually never seen Crowley kill a human. Take their souls, yeah, and he was a total shit for doing that, but Dean got that most people who sold their souls were doing it for stupid reasons. He glanced at Sam and bit back a sigh. Death would be proud of him; he'd learned his lesson. Getting Sam back had worked for Dean, but not so much for Sam. 

And if Dean hadn't gone to hell there probably wouldn't have been an apocalypse, and Sam wouldn't have raised Lucifer, so there were so many deaths on their shoulders it was beyond thinking about.

"Fine," Crowley snapped out, interrupting the bad place Dean's head was going. "What have you got?"

Sam retrieved the laptop and started telling him what little they had. 

"That's it?" Crowley asked. 

Dean handed over the copies of the few newspaper clippings they had. 

Crowley read them, Methos reading over his shoulder. "Is this how you find your cases?" Methos asked. "Newspapers?"

"And the web," Sam said.

"And then you just go and try to stop whatever it is that's killing humans?"

Dean nodded. "Unless they're humans, which happens every now and then."

"Although we try to make sure the police get a tip that will help them work it out," Sam adds.

"How do you get into this field?" Methos asked, sounding intrigued.

"Why are you asking?" Crowley asked him, with a frown, in return. "Planning on taking up the occupation?"

Methos grinned at him. "Maybe. I can't be your kept man forever."

"Yes, you can," Crowley said.

"It's not like I can die," Methos mentioned. "I'd be safe enough."

"Yeah, and why is that?" Dean asked. "What are you?"

"Oh, I'm human enough," Methos said, "just a little more than most." He nudged Crowley. "We'd be fabulous at this! Admit it."

"I am not becoming a demon hunter!" Crowley snapped at Methos. "It would be like becoming a cannibal."

"You probably hate most demons, don't you?" Methos said, but more as if stating a fact, rather than asking a question.

"Of course I do," Crowley said, snapping his fingers to create a totally frou-frou drink complete with fruit and an umbrella.

"Could you be any gayer?" Dean asked.

Crowley looked at Methos. "I don't think so."

Methos snickered. 

"We are not becoming demon hunters," Crowley stated firmly. "I already have a full time job. I only get involved when the status quo is being affected. Thus, the occasional need to work with these two yahoos."

"Hey!" Dean snapped. "If it wasn't for us, you'd be Lucifer's lap dog."

Crowley leered at Sam, giving him a onceover. Sam blushed. Rolling his eyes, Crowley turned his attention back to Dean. "And you'd be Death's bitch. Oh, wait, you already are."

"If he was in this room right now, you wouldn't be talking that way," Dean said. He wished Death was here so he could tear Crowley a new asshole. "If I remember correctly, you wouldn't even go into the pizza parlor. In fact you barely wanted to look in the window."

"Oh, how sweet," Crowley mocked, "he's sticking up for his boyfriend."

"Fuck off, Crowley," Dean said, furious and exhausted, and suddenly so sad his heart felt heavy in his chest. Jesus, he was so tired of his life, having to fight for every fucking thing. "Sam, forget this shit. I'd rather let people die than deal with this sack of shit."

"Nice," Crowley said, "but I know you don't mean that." He glanced at the notes Dean had written on the bottom of the articles. "Like amoebas?" 

Dean swore he was going to go grab Ruby-whatever-the-fuck-name's knife and skewer the asshole with it if he made fun of his notes. He was not in the mood for games.

"Yeah, I know what these are," Crowley said to Dean's surprise. "They split in two, right?" He tapped the newspaper clipping. "Just like an amoeba, because that's what they are, sort of. You don't see it very often, but remember that scare a few years ago about people dying because amoebas were eating their brains?"

Sam got on the laptop, tapping furiously. "Yeah, yeah, here it is. Fuck, Dean, it was in this town."

"One of those people who died became an angry spirit and so did the amoebas," Crowley said with a smug smile.

"You're shitting me," Dean said. He ignored the I'd-like-to-fuck-you-right-now looks Methos was shooting at Crowley.

"Nope. Freezing should do the trick. I think they only survive in the heat. Good old Louisiana, hot like hell all the time." He beamed at the three of them. "I knew I liked it here for a reason. Can I go now?"

Apparently Crowley hadn't missed the look, because he had a hand on Methos' thigh and it was moving north.

"If you're wrong," Dean started.

"I'll check in later," Crowley interrupted. "You summon me in the middle of what I'm about to do next, and I will kill you." With that, he snapped his fingers, and he and Methos were gone.

*****

Having succeeded in killing the amoebas, back at the hotel room, Dean leaned back against the closed door and let out a deep breath. Suddenly he had Sam in his face. "Promise me," Sam said, his hands clutching at the lapels of Dean's army jacket. "Promise me that if I die again, you let me go. Promise me."

"Where the fuck is that coming from?" Dean snapped. They'd killed the amoeba things easy enough once they'd stolen a shit-ton of dried ice and lobbed it in the house. After that, the knife did the trick and Dean was glad Crowley had left it behind. "Did you get hurt and didn't tell me?" If that was the case, Dean was gonna kill him.

"No," Sam said, letting go of Dean and turning away. He took a few steps and sat, then lay back, on the bed. "Dean, I'm just so tired. Every time I close my eyes I see flames, and everything I eat tastes like ash, and I hate it. I hate it." He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, fear in them, then resignation, then utter weariness.

"I get that, Sammy, I do, but you can't give up." Dean had seen that look in the mirror more times than he could remember, and he'd wanted to give up each and every time.

"I'm not as strong as you, Dean, I never have been." He held out his hand toward Dean, and Dean moved close enough for Sam to grab the bottom of his jacket; it's not like he was going to hold his hand. "And I'm sorry I'll be leaving you behind, but promise me if I die, that you'll let me go."

Dean was such a mass of conflicting emotions he didn't even know which one to use to scream at his brother. A couple surprised him, like the thought that maybe he should just get his gun, shoot Sam, and then shoot himself. Or the thought that it might be a relief to have Sam out of it. They'd never gotten it back, what they'd had before Sam died. Whether Sam came back wrong, like Azazel said, or whether what came next had just been too much for Sam, Dean didn't know, but he'd still managed to lose his brother that night in that ghost town.

Of course that was when the guilt came rushing in, and Dean just grabbed the keys and left the hotel room, slamming the door shut behind him.

*****


	3. Chapter 3

*****

Methos jerked awake, the bloody remnants of his vicious nightmare growing indistinct but hovering in a way that told him if he fell asleep again, he'd be right back in it. "Fuck."

A hand flopped on his chest. "Bad dream?"

"Jesus," Methos said, startled, having forgotten for an awful moment that he had someone lying next to him now who would care. "Oh, thank God," he said, rolling over so his head was on Crowley's chest.

"Thank God you woke up?"

"No, thank God for you."

"Don't thank God for me," Crowley said, "He might smite you."

Methos chuckled. "Then thank whoever for you."

"What was it about?"

Methos couldn't remember, but he knew the gist. "All the people I've killed, the villages I destroyed, women I've raped, so many, so many." Methos was consumed by guilt, an old familiar friend, one he'd laid wrapped in for millennium.

Crowley ran his fingers through Methos' hair, not saying a thing. Not that there was much to say. His silence, though, was a reassurance of its own. Crowley knew what he'd done, or enough of it. He'd sensed it right away, and Methos had shared other parts of it when that particular time of history was the fodder for their latest conversation. 

Crowley knew. And yet, here he was, running his fingers through Methos' hair and absolutely, totally, not caring. No forgiveness--there was little point of that; there was no forgiveness to be had. But not being judged was a priceless gift.

Some might say that finding peace in not being judged by a demon was ridiculous, but Crowley wasn't most demons. 

"The only thing I can tell you, love," Crowley finally said, "is that all those people? They'd be dead by now, anyway." 

Methos started to laugh, and when the laughter turned to tears, Crowley just kept holding him.

*****  
Two months later

Dean dreamed of Death. 

"Hello, Dean," Death said.

"Yeah, okay. Hi." Dean tried to keep six feet between him and Death, even if this was a dream. The thing was, though, that maybe it wasn't a dream. Or it was one of those dreams like the ones Castiel used to talk to him. Except now he wasn't fishing off a dock, he was sitting in a Mexican Cantina.

"They have excellent tacos here," Death said.

"I'll have to take your word on that." Dean did notice that no one was dead around him, like they'd been in that pizza parlor. At the time he'd assumed Death had killed them. "Did you kill them?"

"No," Death said, apparently following Dean's mental meandering. "Demons had already killed them before I arrived. I just ate the pizza."

Dean guessed it made sense that Death could have lunch surrounded by dead bodies. "Nothing like working through lunch." He smiled faintly, somehow glad that Death hadn't been responsible for that carnage. Death, little d, was gonna happen to everyone, but there was something wrong about dying at a pizza restaurant. Stupid. "Is Sam gonna die soon?" As soon as the unexpected words were out, his throat closed up and he blinked furiously against the welling heat of tears.

"Yes."

And Dean woke up.

*****

Methos walked into Joe's bar and looked around to make sure Mac wasn't there. It would be a while before he wanted to deal with the Scotsman. Joe was behind the bar, and jumped a little when Methos sat down. "Hey, Joe."

Joe busied himself for a moment, putting a beer in front of Methos, a hesitant grin on his face. "I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again."

"I just need to ask you a question."

"Hit me."

"Whose idea was the holy water?" Methos asked. 

"Mac," Joe said without a second's hesitation, as if there was no contest between Methos' friendship and covering Mac's back.

Methos smiled. "That's why I'm here." He tapped Joe's whiskey glass with his bottle of beer. "You might think I'm insane to take up with Crowley, but you'd never try to kill him without talking to me first, right?"

"I'd never try to kill him anyway," Joe said, "not unless he really had put you under a spell, and I can see for myself that you're still the same crotchety old man."

Methos grinned again. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." They both took a sip, Methos relaxing in Joe's company, something he'd missed the last few weeks. "Think he'll ever get that stick out of his ass?"

Joe coughed on his whiskey before it turned into a laugh. "No. Well, not in my lifetime, anyway. You should have seen him after you left. Well, you should have seen him before you got there. I was sure he was going to start throwing exorcism rites on the table next."

"You can't exorcise Crowley," Methos told him. "I mean you could, but he'd just come right back. He can leave hell anytime he wants. All Mac would have done is really piss Crowley off and, as you can see, the guy's got a lot of power."

Joe tapped his legs. "No argument there. I also noticed that Crowley stopped you from killing Mac, and thank God for it. I think you were pissed enough to take heads and ask questions later, but he stopped you. He still scares the hell out of me, but that was a good thing he did."

Methos scoffed, not agreeing. 

"And you agree with me, old man, and don't deny it. You'd have hated being the one to end the Clan MacLeod."

"Maybe, but that's not why he stopped me. He was protecting you."

"I know. I heard him," Joe said. "And you can tell him thank you from me. I was sure I was about to see a quickening up close and personal and not live to tell the tale."

"What did he say after we left?"

Joe put up a hand to hold that thought. "First, tell me what the hell that was? One second you were there, and the next you were, well, it was like you were sucked away."

"We were," Methos said. "And it's a very long story. In fact," he took out his phone and dialed the number he'd forced out of Crowley. Crowley had put up a stink, but Methos found it interesting he'd known exactly where Dean Winchester was. He'd finally confessed to Methos this morning he was near Joe's. Methos also found it interesting that only when Dean was in shouting distance that Crowley capitulated. He totally had a demon-y soft spot for the older Winchester no matter what he said. "Dean?"

"Who is this?"

"Methos. I heard a rumor you were in my neck of the world."

"You still in Louisiana?"

"Nope. Seacouver, Washington. I know a great bar." Methos asked.

"And I care, why?" Dean asked with a large dollop of suspicion.

"Come join me, and I'll buy you a drink." Methos gave him the address.

"Is Crowley there?"

"Not right now, but no promises." The phone went dead in his ear, and Methos decided to take that as a yes.

"Where are you living now?" Joe asked him. "I went by your apartment but someone else is living there."

Methos wondered what happened to his stuff. Most of his favorite things were in storage, but he'd left a few books behind when Crowley swept him off his feet. But speaking of Joe's question, Methos wasn't exactly sure where he lived. He suspected Crowley's home wasn't really anywhere, which was a godsend, actually, because Methos never had to worry about an Immortal dropping by. On the other hand, he had no answer for Joe. "I don't know. Crowley gave me this spell to use, and when I use it, a door appears, and when I open it and go inside, I'm home."

Joe blinked at him. "Are you shitting me?"

"I'll show you." The place was empty other than him and Joe, so Methos recited the spell. Just like he'd said, a door appeared. It was different every time; today it looked like the golden bas relief doors of the Florence Baptistery of San Giovanni in Florence. He opened it up. "Honey, I'm home!"

No answer.

"He's still at work," Methos said, shutting the door. It hung there for a moment then shimmered away.

"That's…" Joe looked like he was trying to find the right adjective. "Handy."

Methos barked out a laugh. "That it is."

"And where is work?" Joe asked, looking like he was about to hear something bad.

"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to, Joe. Tell me what Mac did?"

Joe snickered. "He went on one of his famous Gaelic rants, and I was just as glad I couldn't understand a word he said. I think he was in shock you pulled your sword. When he started speaking in English again, it was to tell me that he never would have fought you, but he still would have won."

Methos snorted.

"He wouldn't have, would he?" Joe asked.

Methos shook his head. "When I need to win, I win. But I'd just as soon never take another quickening if I can help it, so if I can avoid a fight, I will." 

Joe gave him a considering look. 

There was a sound of a car with a powerful engine pulling up. The engine cut off and then a heavy door opened and then slammed shut. When the bar door opened, Dean stuck his head off.

"Hey," Methos said, waving him in. "Come on in. Meet Joe Dawson. Joe, this is Dean Winchester."

"Is he a demon?" Joe asked.

"Hey!" Dean protested. "No way."

"No," Methos agreed. "And neither is he," he told Dean, chin pointing at Joe. "Just a cool guy who owns a bar."

Dean sat down next to Methos. "If I drink, Sam will have my hide."

"How about a Coke, then," Joe said, getting a glass.

Dean let out a long-suffering sigh but nodded. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Methos said. "Crowley said you were in the area of Joe's bar, and I thought we could talk."

"What about?"

"About what you do. I find it fascinating."

"You wouldn't if you did it. It sucks," Dean said emphatically.

Methos could see it in Dean's eyes; he'd seen it the other week. He'd also seen it in Sam's eyes, but even more so. Dean might be the walking wounded, but Sam was the walking dead. Methos had recognized it in countless Immortal's eyes, right before they went out to a challenge and didn't come back. He wondered if Dean knew his brother wouldn't last long.

"Joe," he said, "Dean is an actual real-life demon hunter. And Dean, put anything you want on my tab anytime you're in town. The food's good, too."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Great, more free food and drink." But one side of his lips was curled up in a smile, and Methos could see in Joe's eyes that he was very glad to see him back in his bar.

"What'd you want to see me about?" Dean asked.

Methos wondered how long it had been since someone called Dean just to shoot the breeze. "No reason. Us odd ducks need to stick together." He stood and motioned for Dean to follow him. He picked a table where Joe could see them, but far enough away for Dean to consider it private.

"Right," Dean said, suspicion in his eyes. "Did Crowley put you up to this?"

"No," Methos promised him, "other than telling me you might be in the area." Leaning forward, he said with all sincerity, "You know he's not quite your run of the mill demon, right?"

"You mean with the King of Hell thing?"

"No, with the more taunting, less killing thing." 

Dean bit his top lip, worrying it. "I was in hell for forty years, and most demons are all about the killing and mutilating, so excuse me if I don't trust Crowley the way you do." He pushed his Coke along the table and ran his fingers through the water rings. 

"I was in my own hell for about a thousand years. Want to compare notes?"

"I'm not kidding."

"Neither am I," Methos said. Crowley had hinted at Dean's time in hell, and Methos was now glad he had, so he was prepared to talk about it. "I'm five thousand years old, Dean. People referred to me as death for at least a thousand of it. I pillaged, raped and murdered my way across what are now Europe, Africa, and Asia. I lost count of the bodies at the end of the first hundred years. I don't do it anymore, but the guilt, the regret, the shame of it eats away at me, keeps me up at night, and is something I can never atone for. Now, let's hear your story."

Dean's eyes were wide, eyebrows up, his jaw hanging open. Then, with a look of determination, he said, "Fine, I was tortured for thirty years. Ripped apart, inside and out, had my skin flayed off, was raped in every conceivable way by every conceivable thing, had my eyes burned out of my skull, and my tongue cut out. Each day I'd be whole again, and it would start all over again."

Methos nodded, "Keep going." He wondered if Dean had ever talked about this to anyone.

"That was the easy stuff, though. Every day, Alistair, he was the demon in charge of breaking me, would tell me all I had to do was give in, agree to be the one torturing people, and he'd stop. After thirty years I gave in." His jaw tightened and his eyes filled with tears. "So for ten years…" Dean cleared his throat, looked away, and surreptitiously rubbed at his eyes. "For ten years I tortured any one they put on the rack. I was good at it." He sent a haunted and defiant look at Methos. "I liked it."

"Yeah, I get that. I liked it, too. And every now and then? I miss it." Methos shook his head. "It's fucked up, but it was so simple, you know? Not caring. Didn't matter who was in front of me. I hated and killed them all equally."

There was a long pause. "There was a prophecy," Dean finally said, "that a righteous man had to fall for the apocalypse to begin. Did Crowley talk to you about the shit that's been going on?" He poked himself in the chest. "All on me."

"No, Dean, that was all on Lucifer, to hear Crowley talk of it. It sucks, but you were a pawn, and you got used, but you're not responsible."

"They told me that my dad got tortured for one hundred years and never gave up." This time a tear fell and slid down Dean's cheek. "He'd be so ashamed of me."

"If I was your dad," Methos said, "I'd be very proud of you, because even though you got used, even though you gave in like most reasonable men would have, you owned it, too much in fact, and you fixed it, against insurmountable odds." He leaned in. "Dean, Crowley told me, and I have no reason not to believe him, that most people in hell deserve to be there, so at least you were torturing bad people. I killed children, priests, it didn't matter, in fact, I enjoyed killing the saintly ones the most." 

"How did you stop doing it?" Dean asked, his eyes bright with tears. "I was turning into the type of demon I hunt. I would have if Castiel hadn't saved me."

"Castiel?" Crowley hadn't mentioned him.

"Angel. He was sent to save me."

"So they didn't send an angel to get your dad?"

Dean looked surprised. "No, but he didn't give in."

"But he was still, at the end of things, less important than you."

"Because I fucked up."

"No," Methos said, sure of it, "because even after ten years of embracing your inner demon you still had a heart big enough and determined enough to take down Lucifer on the world's behalf and never give up." Methos could see it all right in front of him. An actual hero who would give everything he had, everything he was, to protect everyone else but him. A fucked up hero, but a hero nonetheless. And he was a hero who was running out of steam.

Dean covered his face with his hands, his shoulders intermittently shaking as if Dean was fighting for all he was worth not to break down. Methos shifted so he was protecting Dean from being seen by anyone who might walk in the door. If he'd planned this better, he'd have taken Dean into the back, but he didn't want to move him now. All it would take was one wrong move and Dean would turn all stoic on him, and this wasn't the time for that. 

Joe sneaked over and handed him a box of tissues, then snuck back behind the bar.

"Jesus," Dean finally said, his voice waterlogged and thick.

Methos tapped his arm with the box of tissues.

Dean pulled out about twenty of them, wiped his eyes and then blew his noise. He looked beyond mortified.

Methos figured a distraction was due; otherwise Dean would get up and leave. "You should see what Crowley's done with hell. It's all lines."

"What do you mean?"

"Lines. Queues. People waiting endlessly to get to the head of the line and then they suddenly find themselves at the end of it. There's nowhere else to go except stand in line, so there they stand. Like going to the DMV but never leaving."

"In line," Dean said, and Methos could tell he was biting back a smile.

"In line," Methos agreed.

"Shit," Dean said, finally grinning, looking ten years younger and startlingly handsome, despite the red nose and eyes. If Methos wasn't taken, he'd be tempted. But he had the king of temptation at home, and wasn't risking that for anything.

Dean wiped his face again. "Sorry about that."

"Don't apologize. I cried like a baby the other night after a bad nightmare. You know the type I mean."

Nodding, Dean grabbed a few more tissues and blew his nose again. "Yeah, I do."

"You have to cry sometimes, Dean. It's a necessary biological mechanism to blow off stress, and healthier than beating someone up."

"My dad would have beat my ass if I'd ever cried in front of him," Dean said with a rueful smile.

"And that's why no angel ever came to get his ass," Methos told him sharply.

That startled a laugh out of Dean. He picked up his Coke and tapped Methos' beer. "You're all right, Methos." They drank in silence for a minute or two. "How did you stop? How did you go from a killing machine to, well, this?"

Methos wondered when it was going to sink in for Dean how old he was. "There's a complicated answer to that, but the easy one was I got bored. You can only kill so long. You can only destroy things for so long. One day I realized that there was no point in killing these people, because they were already dying. Everyone's dying. Their lives go by so fast." Methos snapped his fingers to illustrate how brief a human's life was. "I don't know, maybe that's what I was angry about, that because their lives were short, it meant more to them than mine did to me."

"Are you really five thousand years old?"

"At least. I lost track at some point." Methos watched him for a long moment. "You don't seem too surprised."

Dean shrugged. "In the last two years I've been dealing with angels, the oldest of demons, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and even God. After a while you start to realize that even though they're old, older than you old? They're all still full of shit." Except, he said in his head, for Death.

"Thanks for adding that, Dean," Death said, suddenly seated at the table with them.

"Holy crap," Dean said, pushing his chair back.

Methos knew instantly who the man was and was stunned, temporarily, into silence. Funny how long he'd accepted the moniker of death without a thought. The power rolling off the being sitting next to him was like nothing he'd even knew existed. Methos would never let anyone call him death again. He didn't deserve it.

"I'd appreciate that," Death said to Methos.

"Appreciate what?" Dean asked.

Methos could see Joe come around the bar to get the new man's order and both he and Dean yelled out. "Don't come any closer!"

Joe stopped in his tracks, turned around, and hid behind the bar. Methos bet he was dying to call Mac, and hoped like hell that he didn't.

"I was thinking," Methos said carefully, "that for a long time, I was referred to as Death, and how I didn't deserve the title."

"Not of Death, certainly", said Death. "War, perhaps. You had a natural talent for causing strife and chaos."

Methos wasn't sure if he should be flattered or not. He thought not.

"What, um, what do you want?" Dean asked Death. "I hope you don't want another day off."

Death smiled a bit. "As you well know, that was to teach you something. Death never has a day off."

"Are you here to reap somebody?" Dean glanced around as if looking for a likely suspect.

"No," Death said. "I was simply listening in to your conversation and found it intriguing."

There was a long silence at the table. Finally, Dean said cautiously, "You came by to talk?"

"It's surprisingly difficult to find someone to have a good conversation with," Death said. "Most of the people I talk to are dying, and while you'd think that would be a good time for an existential conversation, you'd be amazed at how seldom that happens."

"Kind of sucks to be you," Dean said with a strangled laugh.

Methos was impressed that Dean was still talking. Methos wasn't scared of much, but Death was terrifying. Which made sense, because he was the real thing, he was Death, and if he so chose, he could probably end Methos.

"I won't," Death said, turning to him.

The door barged open and Mac was standing there, sword already pulled.

"Christ on a stick," Methos said. He pulled his own sword, but said the spell for the door to his home. When a door appeared, this one looking like Number 10 Downing Street, Methos said to Death, "After you."

Death, looking entirely too entertained for someone with no expression on their face, went through the door. At Methos' urging, Dean followed him. "See you later, Mac," Methos said with a grin, and stepped inside shutting the door.

Crowley stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the three of them. "Well, isn't this cozy."

"Crowley," Death said.

"Death," Crowley said in return. "And Dean, what a pleasant surprise," he said, clearly not meaning it. He followed that with a glare of intense menace Methos' way. "Drinks, anyone?" He snapped his fingers and a full service bar appeared, complete with bartender. In fact, he looked just like Tom Cruise in that movie Cocktail. 

The Tom Cruise facsimile, at least Methos was relatively certain it was a fake, shot Methos a leering grin. Crowley growled, snapped his fingers, and the Tom Cruise lookalike turned into some seventy year old butler type. "Sirs?" the bartender said in a proper British accent. Methos decided to call him Alfred.

"A Kahlua sombrero," Death said, sitting at the bar.

Behind his back Crowley shot Methos a 'what the fuck!" look to which Methos just shrugged helplessly.

"Join me, Dean," Death said.

Dean gingerly sat two seats down from Death. "A Coke for me," he said. Methos thought Dean deserved an AA gold coin for sticking to non-alcoholic beverages through all of this.

"I'll have a beer," Methos said. "And Crowley will have a pina colada."

"Very good, sir," Alfred said.

Dean snorted at that. 

"We were at the bar," Methos said in explanation to Crowley, "minding our own business."

"When I stopped by," Death interrupted.

"No, no, that was fine," Methos told him, which got a bit of an eyebrow raise from Death. "It was Mac. Joe must have called him, and he came charging into the bar, sword flashing, it was quite, well I suppose eighteen year-old-girls would have found it romantic."

That got a grin from Crowley. "Not so much you, though?"

"Not so much."

"Right." Crowley rubbed his hands together. "So, Death, just a social call? Not too many people to reap around here, except Dean, and I hear you're sweet on him."

All three of them shot him a look. Dean's was particularly deadly. Methos almost felt like he should get in between Crowley and that look.

"Something I said?" Crowley asked sweetly, taking his pina colada from Alfred. 

Methos wanted to strip him naked and have his wicked way with him.

"I did not tell him that," Dean told Death. "I would never tell anyone that."

Death stared at him.

"Besides," Dean tried, struggling for survival like a fish gasping out of water, "Why would you, ah, I mean, you made it pretty clear the last couple of times we got together that I was completely insignificant. Bacteria, I think you called me, not exactly flowers and candy, right? So, it's not like you'd choose, you know, I mean, I don't even know if you, yeah, will someone shoot me now?"

Crowley started laughing so hard he almost fell off the bar stool. Methos was doing his best not to join him. But, oh my God, Dean.

Death took his time to stare at them all, one by one, as if measuring them for caskets, and then he disappeared.

Dean got up from his stool, strode to Crowley, and punched him hard in the face.

Methos thought about intervening, but Crowley, still laughing, even as he wiped the blood trickling from his nose away, said, "No, no, I deserved that." He fell on the floor, howling.

"Fuck you!" Dean yelled.

"Yup, I deserve that too, but did you see his face? And you with the babbling?" And Crowley was off again.

Methos wondered if anyone had ever poked fun at Death before. He also wondered if Death maybe was a little sweet on Dean. 

Dean let out a long sigh, but then he was shaking his head and grinning a little. "Thanks a lot," he said to the still laughing demon on the floor. "That's all I need, Death thinking I've got a hardon for him."

"Do you?" Methos asked. Because he was thinking maybe Dean was a little sweet on Death. Well, maybe sweet was the wrong word. Impressed?

"No! Jesus." Dean made some incomprehensible sweeping gesture with his hands negating the thought. "He's Death."

"And?" Methos prompted.

"And nothing. He's Death. You don't have a thing for Death. It'd be like jonesing for God. He could squash me like a bug if I pissed him off, and trust me, I piss everybody off."

"I'll testify to that," Crowley said, lying on the floor, wheezing for breath.

Methos put a hand out to help him up. 

"Oh, Dean, that laugh was worth dinner. Where's your other even more annoying half?"

"I have no idea," Dean said gloomily. "He's been disappearing in between hunts lately." He swallowed. "I had a dream about Death, and he told me Sam was gonna die soon; I think it was real." He huffed out a pained, almost belligerent, laugh. "Sam didn't want his soul back. He liked being a heartless hunter. But I wanted him to have it. I wanted my brother back, so I had Death put his flayed soul back in him, and now it's killing him."

"All the more reason to hang out with him while you can," Crowley said, and he snapped his fingers. Sam was suddenly in their midst, spinning around in confusion.

"What the hell?" he said, before he saw Dean. "Dean, what's going on?"

"Good thing he wasn't taking a shit," Dean said with a quick laugh. "Hey, Sammy. Just in time for dinner."

"At Crowley's?"

"It's my place, too," Methos told him. "And where else are you going to find three dinner companions who totally get what you're going through?" He didn't mention that Sam looked like he was mostly-dead already. His hair was unwashed, his eyes wild with a lack of sleep and whatever it was his injured soul was doing to him. "Crowley?"

"It'll kill him faster," Crowley said, reading Methos' mind.

"What will?" Dean snapped out.

"There's a way to stop what he's going through, but it uses his life energy to do it, and he doesn't have much left."

"Do it," Sam begged. "I don't care. If there's something you can do to give me a break, do it."

"Sammy," Dean said, his voice breaking.

"Dean, I just want to be done with this. You're the only thing that matters to me anymore, and watching me like this is killing you. Please," he said, both to Dean and Crowley.

Crowley had his hand up to snap his fingers, but he was looking at Dean.

"Dean, please," Sam begged again.

Dean nodded, his shoulders tight, eyes so full of sadness it pulled at Methos' heartstrings, and made him wish he could give Dean a hug.

Crowley spoke an incantation, snapped his fingers, and Sam almost collapsed to the floor like his strings had been cut. 

"Oh, my God," Sam said, staggering for balance. Dean was at his side immediately, holding him up and then helping him down to the couch. "God," Sam said, laughing a little, "I'd almost forgotten what that felt like."

"What?" Dean asked.

"No pain." Sam closed his eyes, relaxing into Dean on the couch. "No pain. It feels wonderful."

Dean shifted around until he could get both arms around Sam, holding him close. Sam drifted off to sleep in seconds.

Crowley crouched down by Dean. "Dean, if I keep this up, he won't last the night."

"You mean he'll die that fast?" Dean said, voice wobbling, clutching at Sam.

Crowley nodded. "What do you want me to do?"

Methos couldn’t stand it anymore and got on the couch next to Dean, sitting as close as he dared, offering what comfort he could. He knew it had been the right thing to do when Dean leaned on him a little.

"Jesus, Sam," Dean said, turning his face into Sam's neck, tears streaming down his face. 

"Fuck," Crowley said, and he patted Dean's shoulder, gave Methos a speaking look, said, "Call me if you need me," and vanished into another part of the house. 

*****


	4. Chapter 4

*****

At some point, Sam woke up, and Crowley and Methos both retired to the kitchen to give the brothers some privacy.

Crowley smacked Methos on his chest. "You had me comforting a Winchester. If word of this gets out, I'll be demoted."

"By who?" Methos asked.

"By me," Crowley snarled. He took a moment to take in the Winchesters on his couch. The two brothers were talking and crying, and it was fucking breaking Crowley's heart. "You had to bring them here?"

"You brought Sam here," Methos said, moving closer to hug Crowley. "I know you talk up a storm about how you can't stand Dean Winchester, but I don't believe you. There's just something about him."

"Cooties." But Crowley hugged Methos back, reveling in the very aliveness of him, versus the wraith of Sam Winchester dying by inches on his couch.

"It's good he's here," Methos said.

"Why?" Crowley didn't want to be responsible for Dean's sanity. He wasn't at all sure he'd be successful maintaining it. "The only thing that's stood between Dean and suicide is his brother, and he'll be dead in a few hours. I don't know if there's anything we can do to help."

"Maybe not, but at least he won't be alone," Methos told him.

"Bleeding heart," Crowley accused.

"And you love me."

"Yeah, I do."

*****

It was four hours later and Methos didn't think Sam had much more time. He and Dean had spent an hour apologizing to each other. Sam had spent an hour forcing Dean to make all sorts of promises Methos was sure he had no intention of keeping. And then they'd spent the last two hours reminiscing, and had even invited Crowley and Methos to join them to talk about their craziest cases.

Methos had known the brothers the same amount of time, but he already considered Dean a friend and kindred spirit, and he ached for the death vigil the brother was going through.

"Thanks," Sam said to Crowley, "really. We wouldn't have been able to stop the apocalypse without you."

"Stop it," Crowley said. "You'll make me blush." When Sam looked like he was about to say more, Crowley put up his hand. "I'm serious. Stop it. I didn't do any of it for you."

Methos snorted.

"And no comments from the peanut gallery," Crowley said to Methos.

"Don't worry," Dean said, "you're still the biggest asshole I know."

"Thank you," Crowley said with gratitude.

"I made Dean promise to not kill himself," Sam told him. "You have to make sure he keeps that promise."

"No," Crowley said, "actually I don't."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Methos offered. He let Crowley's comment alone because Methos knew it was a lie. Crowley liked Dean, snarky comments aside.

"Can we not talk about me like I'm not sitting right here?" Dean growled.

"Jesus, I'm tired," Sam said. He closed his eyes and sagged into the couch. "Dean."

"If you try to apologize for anything else, I will beat you," Dean said. "We're good, Sammy. I love you. You're my brother." His lips trembled and he looked away, firming up his jaw, swallowing hard.

Sam smiled at the back of Dean's head. "Love you, too." To Crowley, he asked, "Could you get Bobby?"

"What is this? Grand Central Station?" Crowley complained. But he snapped his fingers and Bobby was suddenly in the room, mug of coffee in one hand, and the newspaper in the other.

"What the fuck?" he snarled, looking around him. His eyes grew wide when he saw Crowley, then he took in Dean and Sam. "Dean, what's going on?"

"I’m dying, Bobby," Sam said, "and I wanted to say goodbye."

Methos decided it was a good idea for him and Crowley to leave the three alone. He stood and held out his hand for Crowley. "Come on."

Crowley took his hand, and followed Methos into the kitchen, far enough away to give the semblance of privacy, but close enough to overhear everything.

*****

Dean relinquished his space on the sofa for Bobby, listening as Sam told Bobby to take care of him. Dean wanted something alcoholic so badly he could taste it, but he knew if he started drinking now he wouldn't stop, and he didn't want Sam's last memories of him to be an angry drunk.

He took the time to glance around Crowley's home. It was kind of nice. Comfy sofa, too many paintings, and Dean guessed they were all originals and probably worth a few million dollars each. 

Sam was dying. Would be dead soon. His brother was going to be dead, and Dean was going to be on his own again. It was funny how the thought of that didn't sting quite as much as it had before. Dean didn't like being alone, but it might, possibly, be better than being with someone who was more miserable than Dean. And maybe that was a sucky thing to think about his brother, but there it was.

In a lot of ways he'd been grieving for his brother for years, and all that was left was the actual dying. He could remember how it felt to see Sam lying dead on that bed in that damn ghost town after Jake had cut his spine. It had felt as if his entire world had died along with him.

In a way this freed him. No real reason to stay alive anymore. Not that Dean would kill himself; he promised Sam and he'd keep that promise. But if he didn't have Sammy to take care of, then it wouldn't matter so much if he took stupid chances, stupider chances; who would care? Bobby, sure, and Dean was sorry the man had been saddled with two such losers as substitute sons, but you can't choose your family, right?

But Bobby was a survivor in a way Dean wasn't, and he'd carry on. Maybe Crowley would check in with him every now and then. He'd probably make Bobby's life a living hell whenever he did stop by, but it would be better than nothing. There weren't many demon hunters left now, and the ones that were left were burned out like Dean. What a fucking brutal life.

He looked at the couch where Sam and Bobby were forehead to forehead, Bobby's hand around the back of Sam's neck. Dean started to tear up again, and he angrily dashed the tears away. Jesus, he'd cried more today than the last year.

He glanced at the kitchen to where Methos and Crowley stood quietly talking. Methos was a surprise because Dean liked him, and he never would have guessed that Crowley would fall for someone so normal; normal being a relative term, obviously. He wasn't sure what Methos saw in the demon, but there was no doubt he loved the guy. Maybe he could teach Dean a thing or two about living with all the shit Dean carried around. That is if Dean decided to hang around a while. 

Bobby was suddenly standing next to him and Dean's head turned so quickly toward the couch it make his neck twinge. Panic swept over him. "He's not-"

"No, he's just sleeping," Bobby said. "Jesus, Dean."

Dean tightened his lips and nodded. There wasn't much to say.

"You gonna be okay?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah," Dean said, putting as much sincerity as he could dredge up in his tone. "Yeah, you know what, I think I might be."

"You're so full of shit," Bobby said.

"What do you want me to say?" Dean asked angrily. "That I'm okay with this? That I want my little brother to die? That I don't feel responsible for the hell his life has been for the last three years?" He waved his hand in the air negating everything he'd said. "Forget about it. I'm just tired. I can't even remember the last time I had a good night's sleep." He rubbed at his eyes. "How about you?"

Bobby just shook his head, glancing at the couch. "Don't follow him, Dean. I can't take losing you again. You hear me?"

"I hear you." So maybe Dean had something to live for, at least for a while.

"In fact, why don't you come home to South Dakota with me when this is over? Get some sleep. Maybe we can just work the junk yard like a couple of normal guys for a while."

"Normal guys. Right." Dean half grinned at Bobby. He'd had that for a while with Lisa and Ben, but Dean had felt like he was impersonating someone else, someone other than Dean Winchester. "I’m a hunter, Bobby. That's all I know; and it's damn sure all I'm good for."

Bobby's eyes narrowed, and Dean was sure he was about to get hollered at, but Sam said his name. 

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean said, moving to the couch to sit next to his brother. Sam was taking up most of the couch, head on the armrest, and the rest of him curled up on two thirds of the space. "What is it? Do you need something?"

"Just sit here with me. I can tell it won't be long." His voice was weak, and his face pale, but his eyes were at peace, and Dean felt a moment of vicious envy for it.

Dean moved to the floor so he could be nearer Sam's face. "I'm right here," he told his brother.

Sam turned a little to face him. "Do you think I'll go to heaven?"

Fear swamped through Dean. "Crowley!"

Crowley was there in a blink. "What? Is he dead?"

"No, but his soul. He'll get to go to heaven, won't he?" Jesus, Dean hadn't even thought of that. Considering some of the shit Sam had done, considering how trashed his soul was, was there a chance he'd go to hell? Dean couldn't even begin to deal with that, even if all it meant, with Crowley in charge, was that Sam would be standing in lines. 

Crowley looked surprised, as if he hadn't thought of that. "Good question. Although if it was up to me, I wouldn't let a Winchester come within a mile of hell." He looked down at Sam. "I can't tell. His soul's too beat up."

"He won't go to hell," Death said, suddenly appearing.

"You promise?" Dean demanded.

Death just gave him a look.

"Right," Dean said, backing off. 

"Tessa," Death said, and suddenly Tessa was there. She kissed Dean on the forehead, but then was somehow on the couch, holding Sam.

"Is he?" Dean asked, his chest tight enough to make it an agony to draw a breath. It was like claws were digging in, like the hellhounds were going after his heart for the second time. "God, is he--?"

"Not quite yet," Death said. 

Dean scrambled to his feet as Death moved in his direction, and he went to sit on the other end of the couch, his hand on one of Sam's ankles. He was crying again, but he couldn't give a shit about that right now.

"Just tell me there's nothing you can do," Dean asked Death. "There's no way to heal him?"

"His soul was too ravaged," Death told him. "I told you before that souls are stronger than anyone knows, but they can be damaged. His is beyond repair for the earthly realm." 

"So after he dies you can't bring him back?"

"I could, Dean, but I cannot heal his soul. Is that what you want?"

Dean felt like screaming yes with everything he was, but he knew it was the wrong answer. Death knew it, Methos and Crowley knew it, and Sam for sure as hell knew it. He shook his head at Death.

"Dean," Sam said so softly, he almost couldn't hear it.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm right here," Dean managed to get out, his hand squeezing Sam's ankle. He felt Bobby sit on the arm rest behind him.

"Best big brother ever," Sam said. His eyes closed and he stopped breathing.

Dean let out a sob as Tessa ran her fingers through Sam's hair.

Death sat on the coffee table, reached a hand into Sam's chest and pulled out a glowing ball of light. He let it go for a moment, and it shot to Dean, hovered in front of his face for a moment and then did the same to Bobby. After that, the glow settled back into Death's hands. Death carefully handed it off to Tessa. "Heaven," he told her.

She nodded, holding Sam's soul in her hands. "Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean just nodded at her, glad it was her taking Sam to heaven; it was like he'd be going there with a friend. Tessa disappeared and they were left there with Sam's body.

Death looked at Dean. "Don't do anything stupid. I have my eye on you." With that, he also disappeared.

"Well, that was different," Crowley said. "You do have some odd and powerful friends, Dean, I'll give you that." He narrowed his eyes as he looked at Dean. "No plans to go sell your soul to some crossroads demon to get Sam back?"

"No," Dean gasped out, although he wanted to, wanted to, wanted to, God he wanted to so badly. He covered his face with his hands and balled like a baby.

*****

Dean didn't even remember going to sleep but, when he woke up, he was in a very comfortable bed. His nose was stuffy, and his eyes felt like he'd rubbed sand in them. He heard a movement and he whipped over to find Methos lying next to him. 

"I'm just checking in," Methos told him. "Need anything?"

His brother alive? No, not good enough. A life like the Djinn gave him? Sammy engaged and happy? Well, he could get that in heaven, couldn't he? "No."

"There's some water and Tylenol on the bedside table." Methos got up, then, and retrieved them, handing the pills to Dean. "Take them and drink the whole glass. You've cried out a river tonight."

Dean was too tired to argue, so he took the pills and drank the water. He blew his nose with a fistful of tissues and then lay back down. "Where's Sam's, um, where's his body?"

"Crowley has him somewhere for safe keeping. Don't worry about that now, just sleep." Methos lay down again. The bed was plenty big, so it wasn't like he was crowding Dean.

"What are you doing?" Dean still asked.

"Keeping you company. Sleep."

Dean watched Methos for a minute, then closed his eyes, glad for the company. In a little while, he was asleep again.

When he woke up the next time, Crowley was there with his iPhone. "Jesus," Dean said, his voice scratchy. "What are you doing here?"

"Playing solitaire," Crowley said, showing him the phone.

"No, I mean, what are you doing here, in this bed, right now?"

"It's my turn to play nanny. I don't want to talk about it, so shut up and go back to sleep."

Weirdly comforted, despite the fact that it was Crowley, Dean did just that.

The next time, it was Methos again. Dean stared at him, confused for a moment, and then, sorrow washing through him, he said, "Jesus, he's really dead, isn't he?"

Methos just pulled him in and held him until he cried himself out and fell asleep again.

When next he woke up, it was still Methos. Methos directed him to the bedside table on Dean's side of the bed. "More water and Tylenol."

Dean grabbed them and swallowed the pills down, drinking the entire glass. "What time is it?" He moved to lean against the headboard.

"Six thirty," Methos said.

"Morning or night?"

"Does it matter? You need to sleep until you can't anymore. Then it will be whatever time that is, and we'll do what needs to get done."

That actually suited Dean who didn't feel like dealing with a thing.

"Don't think," Methos said, "just tell me how you're feeling. Just words. Now. Go."

Startled, Dean blurted out, "Tired. Angry. Relieved. Sad," and his voice broke on that word. "Wondering what the hell's the point if we're just gonna die? Thinking it would have been better if I'd never been born." He glanced at Methos for that one, but only saw a man willing to listen. Dean guessed a guy who'd been around for five thousand years living like a real guy on earth, had seen it all. "How many people have you buried?"

"Ninety-seven spouses," Methos said, "about two thirds of which were women. That's all I keep track of now. It got to a point where just the number alone depressed me, let alone the actual losses, and that was thousands of years ago. People die, Dean. For most of us, it's the way of the world. We're born, we live our life, and then we die." 

"So what's the point?"

"That's a question for which only you can find the answer. The point for me may not be the point for you."

"What's the point for you, then?" Dean asked.

"I have this friend," Methos said, lying down onto his side so he faced Dean, "or ex-friend at the moment until he realizes what an amazing ass he is and grovels properly."

Dean found himself grinning a little. 

"Anyway, when I met this friend, who has been alive for a little over four hundred years, a baby compared to me, he was quite in awe of me, kept waiting around for me to spout words of wisdom that surely I'd accumulated during my many, many years of existence."

"And did you have any?"

"Not really. I told him the truth, which is that I’m just a guy. A very old guy, but just a guy. See, Dean, the real truth is that there is no truth. I have seen Truth, with a capital T, change completely over the centuries. Truths that people died for, truths that people killed for, truths that ripped civilizations apart, and now all they are is a paragraph in a history book, and we look at those people and think how foolish they were. And yet, there are people today doing the same, and there'll be people a thousand years from now doing the same, and at the end of the day, it's all bullshit."

"You're a ray of sunshine," Dean said wryly. "Thanks for cheering me up."

"No, Dean, you're not hearing me. Albert Schweitzer said it best, I think. He was a physician and a true renaissance man. He won the Nobel Peace prize for his reverence for life. He was mocked for being unrealistic when he opened his hospital in Africa. There are too many to care for, he was told. You can't possibly treat them all, he was told. And he said back to them that it certainly mattered to the ones he could help."

"Did you know him?"

"I did. We played in a band together," Methos said with a grin. "But where I’m going with all of this, is to this point. No matter what ideology being forced on you by God, or Castiel or any of the other angels, or Lucifer or Alistair, or even your brother Sam and even Crowley, this is what you did. Every day you got up and tried to do the best you could for whoever needed help that day. And that's the point. That's all you can do, and the rest of it, it's all bullshit."

"People died because of me."

"No, they died because of Lucifer. Or God. Or because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Answer me this. If you'd known what you were starting when Alistair tempted you each day, would you have given in?"

"I hope not," Dean said.

"I know not. I've only known you a couple of months, and I know that about you already." He put up a hand to stop Dean from saying anything. "I’m not saying you can't be an asshole. I'm not saying you don't have some serious fucked up issues from your childhood and the mind whammies very powerful creatures, who should have known better, have played on you. I can see you're defensive and a smart-ass with more bravura than brains sometimes and yet, through it all, you are a good guy. And that's the point."

"And then I die?"

"And then you die," Methos said. "And maybe, because of your life style, there won't be a lot of people who'll mourn you, but I will, and I know Crowley will even if he'd deny it to his dying breath, but I guarantee you there are hundreds of people out there that you saved, who think of you every day and thank you for what you did, and there are worse legacies to leave behind."

"Listen to me," Methos continued intently, "angels, messengers of peace, God's chosen, were killing each other, threatening to smite villages, playing you and Sam against each other. If they were the good guys, how the hell were you and Sam ever supposed to have a clear direction to march in?"

"You sure do know a lot all of a sudden," Dean said, frowning, a suspicion niggling in his brain.

"Okay, I confess," Methos said with an impish grin. "Crowley's got a set of the Winchester Gospels."

"God damn it," Dean snapped. "I hate those things."

"I'll bet you do. But, for someone like me, coming in after the fact, reading the books from start to finish, it's like some epic tale, some Greek tragedy, like Jason and the Argonauts, like Star Wars. It's an extraordinary story, and like I said, from where I'm sitting, buddy, you are Han Solo. You are totally the hero. Sorry, but it's the truth. And you don't come across as a loser, or a dupe, or a killer. You come across, and forgive me because I’m about to get schmaltzy which will make you squirm, but you come across as a man who chose love over hate, over and over again at great personal sacrifice, and who, at the end of it all, through love, saved the day."

Dean wanted to scoff, wanted to tell Methos that he was full of shit, but this wasn't just a guy, even if that's what he called himself. He was someone who'd lived a worse life than Dean, who'd lost more than Dean ever would, and yet saw something promising in him.

It was too soon to believe it, but just hearing it from someone who was under no obligation to say these things to him, kindled an ember of hope that he might wade through the minefield of his mind and heart and get through to the other side largely intact. "Fuck," he said.

"Ready for more sleep, or are you hungry?"

"I don't know." Dean had no idea how his body was feeling other than exhausted. "Sleep, I guess."

"Knock yourself out," Methos said.

"You don't have to stay."

"Yeah, I do," Methos countered. "I'll know when it's time to leave you alone, but that time isn't now."

Dean didn't really want to argue. It was nice to keep waking up to find someone watching over him, even when it was Crowley. He had expected to be shown the door and to be doing this in some hotel room by himself, or at Bobby's, where there were too many bad memories haunting the place. "Where's Bobby?"

"He wanted to go home. He said to call when you wanted to talk."

Dean nodded. "Methos, thanks."

Methos just nodded and then reached for a book on his side of the bed. "Mind if I keep the light on for a while?"

Dean shook his head and, in truth, was glad for the light. He lay back down, closed his eyes, and listened to a long time to the sound of Methos turning pages, until finally he fell asleep.

The next time he woke up, it was Crowley again. "Time to eat," was all he said. "Get up."

Figuring he'd get snapped into the kitchen if he didn't comply, Dean got up, went to use the bathroom, then met Crowley and Methos in the kitchen. Dinner was a fairly silent affair, just a simple dinner of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and string beans, the perfect comfort food. Dean was sure Methos had picked the menu on purpose just for that reason.

He did his best not to think about why he needed comfort. Around the edges of being sure that Sam was happier now, and the undeniable fact that Dean's life was going to be a hell of a lot less complicated with Sam dead, was the abyss of Sam's absence. Dean had a brother, and now he didn't. He used to have a family, a blood family, and now he was alone.

He ate methodically, one mouthful at a time, while the effort of pushing the emptiness away got harder and harder. At the same time he was so fucking pissed at Sam for making so many fucking bad decisions, the penultimate one being choosing to just up and fucking die.

Dean finally pushed his plate away, hoping he wouldn't barf it up.

"Come with me," Crowley said.

"Why?" Dean asked belligerently.

"Don't argue," Crowley snapped, "just come with me."

Dean angrily got to his feet, but he did follow Crowley through the house until he came to a door. "Put your boots on."

Dean looked down to see his boots sitting to the side, along with a pair of safety glasses. "What the fuck, Crowley?"

"Put your boots on, and then put the glasses on."

Intrigued enough to obey, Dean did as he was told. Then Crowley handed him a baseball bat and opened the door. Inside were shelves and shelves of ceramics. Those stupid Japanese lucky cats with the paw up, and dancing ballerinas, and those fricking scary Precious Moments things, and a shit-ton of china doll-heads.

"Have at it," Crowley told him, and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Dean stared at all the china, feeling the little doll heads staring at him, like some creepy horror movie. It reminded him of that case where the little girl almost drowned. He didn't even remember moving, but the bat was suddenly in swing, and the doll heads went flying, smashing into the wall. A few lucky cats went next and, between them and the doll heads, the floor was already littered with china shards.

Dean went crazy next. He slammed the bat down on the heavier glass shelving, over and over again until it broke in two, falling down onto the shelf below, creating a waterfall of destruction. He started to yell, swinging the bat as hard as he could, not even caring what he was hitting, as long as he hit something. He beat the shelves, the walls, the floor, even took out some ceiling tiles. He yelled until his voice was hoarse, and he swung the bat until his shoulders ached and his arms felt like wet noodles.

Then he slid down the wall until his ass was on the floor and screamed and cried and screamed some more. He almost lost his dinner, but he swallowed convulsively until he kept it down, and then he sat there, his chest heaving, gasping for breath, his skin sweaty and speckled with blood. 

He lost track of how long he stayed there, his mind blank, body exhausted, until finally the door opened. "Nice," Methos said. 

Dean could barely move his head enough to see him. "I can't move."

Methos offered him a hand. "I'll help. Then a nice hot shower, and then you decide if you want more sleep or some company. You wouldn't believe the movie collection Crowley has. I think it's every movie ever made, and I'm not kidding."

Taking his hand, Dean forced his body up. "A movie sounds good. Something brainless. I'm sure Crowley has a million of them."

After his shower, watching a movie was both harder and easier than Dean expected. Harder because too many times during the movie he was reminded of the countless times he and Sam had sat in a hotel room late at night, watching stupid monster movies. Easier, because when he wasn't breathing through pangs of sorrow, it was hysterical. Every now and then Crowley would just change the movie. Not to another movie, but he'd change the girl into a guy, or give the monster a cock and balls so big he kept tripping over it.

It was hard to remember, sometimes, just how powerful Crowley was. Not that changing a movie was proof positive of power. But the guy could change reality to make a wish come true. "Hey Crowley," Dean suddenly asked, during some boring romantic interlude.

"What?" Crowley said, shoving a handful of popcorn in his mouth.

"What makes a crossroad demon able to change the world the way you do? I mean, most demons can't do that. Can't make someone famous, or bring someone back from the dead. How does that happen?"

Crowley shrugged. "I give the power to the demons under me. Or it might be more correct to say that they tap into my power to make the wishes come true."

"So, it's all your power?" Dean asked, surprised. "How do you have so much power?"

"Made this way," Crowley said. He took a sip of his bourbon, his brow furrowing. "Haven't thought about it in a long time."

"Who made you?" Methos asked. "And I thought demons were all humans at one point."

"Nah," Crowley said. "Demons come from all sorts of places. Lucifer made me, or at least he said he did. For all I know, God made me. Tempter in the Garden of Evil." He waggled his eyebrows. "Maybe Lucifer made me before he fell, and just dragged me down with him."

Dean let that one go, although he wouldn't be surprised. "Your eyes don't turn black or red, even when you make a deal. Are you an angel?"

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "Bite your tongue."

"I'd love you in feathers," Methos teased.

"You want feathers?" Crowley demanded with attitude. "Here."

Dean was suddenly spitting out feathers as the room was full of them. He breathed one in, and began coughing, which only caused him to breathe more in, and for a bewildering frightening second, he wondered if he was about to die from feather asphyxiation.

"Or is this what you meant?" and the feathers from the room were gone, and Crowley sat there with these enormous black wings sprouting from his back, looking as impressive as Castiel's did, or the shadow of Castiel's wings, as Dean had never really seen them for real.

Dean coughed again, sure there was still a feather in his mouth, but he couldn't take his eyes off of Crowley. "Those really yours?"

Just that fast, they were gone. Crowley shrugged again. "Hard to know what's real or not, even for me sometimes, given I can do just about anything."

"Just so you know," Methos said, eyes round, "you are so putting those back on later."

Crowley grinned at him. "Wing kink?"

"You have no idea," Methos breathed. "I had no idea."

"Hey," Dean complained. "Keep the sex talk in the bedroom please." For a second Dean fully expected for the living room to end up turning into a bedroom, and was relieved when it didn't.

"Is there anyone stronger than you?" Methos asked.

"Lucifer," Crowley mused. "But we took care of him, as long as no one else decides to take it into their heads to let him out of his cage." He glared at Dean. "Hmm, I'm not sure about angels. But they're so easy to manipulate, I've never had to fight one. Death." Crowley mock shivered. "Don't think anyone's stronger than him, except maybe for God."

"He told me that at the end of everything, he'd reap God," Dean said.

"No shit?" Crowley asked. 

"But Bobby said before Lucifer let him out that Death was locked and chained in a magical coffin 600 feet under the Earth because his power was too dangerous to allow him to roam freely. He said the host of heaven only let him out when they needed him," Dean said.

"So he and God are maybe neck-and-neck power wise if it takes the host of heaven to cage him up," Crowley guessed. "At any rate, I'm not pissing the guy off."

"It doesn't seem like he's been wreaking much havoc," Methos said. "I wonder if they caged him up just because he is powerful and heaven didn't like that his power wasn't theirs to control."

"And now he's taking an interest in Dean," Crowley said with a crooked grin. "Dean, you sure can pick 'em."

"Shut the fuck up," Dean snarled. 

Crowley sniggered, and grabbed another handful of popcorn from a bowl that never got empty.

Dean put his gaze back on the television set, and he could swear it was at exactly the spot it was at when he'd first asked Crowley a question. Okay, so maybe Crowley was, occasionally, kind of cool to have around.

*****


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this story is set before the whole purgatory story line which will not be happening.

*****

When Dean woke up hours later, Methos was back in bed with him, reading a book, although it was upside down, so Dean didn't think he was really reading it. Methos' eyes were sort of glazed, and he had a zillion hickies on his neck, even if some of them were fading right in front of Dean's eyes. "So, the wings really do it for you?"

"They really do," Methos said, huffing out a laugh. His eyes cleared a little. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said. He wasn't, and he probably wouldn't be, not for a long time, maybe not ever, but he was good enough. "We should probably, I don't know, cremate Sam." That hurt to say, and his throat got tight. Along with the pain came this ridiculous flash of fear that maybe they shouldn't, because if they burnt Sam, he really couldn't come back. "We should definitely burn him," he managed to croak out.

Methos nodded. "Okay. Anyplace special you want to do it? You know Crowley can make it happen."

Dean tried to think of where Sam might like to have his ashes spread. The only thing he could think of was that time in heaven when a younger Sam and he shot off all those fireworks. "Maybe fireworks? I mean, he can get burned anywhere, but maybe his ashes in fireworks?"

Methos' eyes were kind as he smiled. "What a way to go, huh? I like it."

"Can we get Bobby here?"

Methos nodded. He slipped off the bed, apparently deciding it was time for Dean to sleep on his own. "You'll be okay, Dean Winchester."

"I’m glad you think so." Dean didn't think the jury was out on that one. "Go have some more wing porn."

Methos' eyes lit up at that. "It's so much fun discovering a new kink. It's been a very long time; after five thousand years I thought I'd seen it all."

Half groaning, half laughing, Dean waved him out of the room. "Go away, now."

The man could move fast, as he was out of the room almost before Dean's hand stopped moving. The silence and the sense of being alone pressed on him. He thought of his future, of the endless nights ahead of him feeling like this, of empty hotel rooms, and no one there to patch him up, or watch stupid movies with him, and his eyes brimmed with tears. "Jesus," he muttered, "you're such a fucking baby." He knuckled his eyes. 

A random thought suddenly appeared to him. "Hey, Death," he asked, certainly not expecting any kind of answer, "my dad sold his soul to save me. Did you ever show yourself to him and yell at him?"

"No," Death said, and Dean let out a yelp and almost fell out of bed. "I was detained at that particular moment." Death was sitting in a chair a few feet away.

"Oh," Dean said, feeling deflated. "But you would have if you could have?"

"No," Death said.

The door burst open and Methos blurted out, "Everything okay?" Then he saw Death, and said, "Oh, hello again." He shut the door behind him and Dean could have cheerfully strangled him for leaving him alone with Death.

Focusing back on the conversation, and not on the fact that he was half naked in a bedroom with one of the two most powerful beings, ever, in existence, and while the third or fourth most powerful creature was no doubt laughing hysterically at Dean's expense in his bedroom, Dean asked, "Why not? Didn't he screw around with the natural order of things? Aren't other people still selling their souls and screwing with the natural order of things? Why me? Why am I special?" Dean was, not to put too fine a point on it, fucking sick of being special.

Death seemed to consider him for a long time, and Dean didn't quite feel like an insect under glass, but it was still unnerving. "Your soul, Dean, is quite remarkable."

Castiel had told him something similar, but Dean didn't get that. Unless they meant it was amazing in that it still existed, like a Timex watch that keeps on ticking after it takes a licking. Death sighed, no doubt reading Dean's mind. Dean flashed what was no doubt a sickly smile at Death. "Sorry, I don't get it."

"I told you that souls are strong."

Dean nodded.

"Yours is remarkably strong."

"So?"

"There are certain people throughout history who have had remarkable souls. Methos is one. You're another. Your souls can survive anything. Like a cork in water, no matter how far it gets shoved down to the depths, it springs back up and, over time, always effects the souls of those around them for better or worse."

Dean grimaced. He could bet on which side he'd end up.

"Dean," Death interrupted that negative thought. "You're wrong. I said your soul was remarkable, not tainted. It's the tainted ones that affect those around them for worse."

"I don't get it. Sorry, but I know what kind of life I've lived, and I ain't no Mother Teresa."

"And yet look how the world bows to your wishes."

Dean's laugh was harsh. "This is the world bowing to my wishes? Jesus fuck, I'd hate to live in a world that didn't, then."

"You're thinking too small, too caught in your moment-to-moment needs. You stopped an apocalypse, Dean."

"Not by myself."

"Without you to rally around, do you honestly think they would have been successful?"

"Without me to rally around, there never would have been an apocalypse."

"Don't be ridiculous. They simply would have designed another plan. This one took hundreds of years to come to fruition, but immortal beings have time to waste."

Dean hadn't thought of that.

"The host of heaven was counting on you to bring paradise to Earth, the fight for which would destroy the humans on this planet. The host of hell were counting on you to bring Hell to Earth which would inevitably cause the subjugation of humans on this planet. You forced a stalemate that stopped them both. You stopped the host of heaven and the host of hell. As I said, remarkable."

Dean hadn't thought of that, either. That was kind of okay. Except that Sam was dead. 

"Azazel killed him," Death told him, "three years ago."

Reaching for the glass of water that Dean knew Methos had put there, like some mother-hen, Dean drank the whole thing. When he was done, he gestured at Death with the empty glass. "Sorry, you want something to drink?"

Death shook his head. He stood and moved closer to the bed, holding out his hand, his fingers outstretched as if he were going to touch Dean.

Dean shrank back. "I thought everyone died who touched you."

"If they touch me," Death corrected. "I can touch whom I wish. Experience your soul," he said, and touched Dean's chest.

It was blinding and Dean shut his eyes against it but could still see the light. It was everywhere, in every pore of his being, this radiant, soothing, loving, healing light that sang softly to him in the world's best lullaby, rocking him like a loving mother's arms, holding him like a lover's embrace, supporting him like a fellow warrior, protecting him like a mother tiger protecting her cubs. It just lasted a second, and then Death was pulling his hand away.

"That was my soul?" Dean rasped out, overcome with its beauty, barely able to believe that was inside of him.

"That was a mere taste of your soul." Death sat back down. "It is why I was interested in you, because you have a power inside of you that you loose on the world like a toddler with an Uzi. It was why you had to understand how powerful a soul can be. How it can change the world."

Dean just stared at Death. "I, uh, I have no idea what to say, to any of that."

"So here you are, you and Methos, together. With Crowley, who has an interesting soul of his own."

"Crowley has a soul?" Dean asked in amazement.

"Oh, yes," Death said.

"I do not," Crowley said indignantly, pushing the door open where it was obvious he and Methos had been listening at the door.

Death just looked at him.

"Crap," Crowley said with heartfelt feeling.

"So not a real demon," Methos said.

"You can be replaced," Crowley snapped.

"I doubt that," Methos replied with a grin.

"I am the King of Hell," Crowley said with heat. "I have been a crossroads demon for centuries. I am a demon."

"Of sorts," Death said.

"Ha!" Crowley said. 

"He said 'of sorts'," Methos told him, wrapping his arms around Crowley. "And I promise not to think any less of you if you're only part demon."

"What the hell does 'of sorts' mean?" Dean asked. Methos and Crowley moved to sit on the bed, and Dean thought this had to be the fucking weirdest pajama party in the history of the world. 

"You hate demons," Death told Crowley.

"I do," Crowley said. "They're disgusting animals."

"And yet you insist you are one."

"Okay, so maybe I'm a little higher up on the demon evolutionary ladder," Crowley said.

"Much higher," Death said.

"Do not tell me I'm mostly human," Crowley yelled at him, "or I will kick your ass, even if you are Death. They're not much better than demons."

"I think I must protest on behalf of the human race," Methos told him.

"You're different," Crowley reassured him.

"Your threat leaves me quaking," Death told him with his usual deadpan expression, and Dean was beginning to catch on that Death had a very dry sense of humor, like the Sahara desert dry. "But, no, you're not human either. Just as Methos isn't quite human, and I suspect Dean isn't entirely human anymore, either."

"Hey," Dean said. "What the hell does that mean? I'm not a demon."

"No, you are not," Death told him. 

"So what do you mean that I'm not quite human?"

"Do you feel as if you have a lot in common with most humans walking around?" Death asked him.

Dean frowned. "No, but that doesn't mean I'm not human."

"I didn't say you weren't human, Dean," Death told him. "I said you weren't entirely human."

Dean wasn't sure what to think about that.

"I believe that handprint on your shoulder began the process."

"You mean Castiel laid some angel mojo on me?" Dean rolled back his sleeve to look at the mark.

"I’m not sure. I can see his handiwork, like leaving fingerprints at the scene of the crime, but I'm not sure exactly what he's done."

"Besides," Crowley said, poking Dean, "you've died now, how many times? You've been to heaven and hell, you had an angel bff, you were on a first name basis with Lucifer himself, and now you've got Death calling, and not with his usual calling card. That sound fully human to you?"

"While you," Dean said heatedly, "worked with us to stop the apocalypse, in fact, you came up with the ideas that actually worked. You've been working with me and Sam for two years to try to bring down Lucifer. According to Methos you've turned hell from a torture pit to a DMV line where the only thing violent going on is people being bored to death, and you're in love with a mostly human guy. And," Dean said, his voice getting louder to make his point over Crowley's sputtering, "you're being nice to me, even playing nanny and watching over me while I'm sleeping. That sound like a demon to you?"

Methos started laughing. "You two are so perfect!"

"Quite a threesome," Death said.

"No way," Crowley said, hugging Methos to him tightly. "I don't share."

"Not ever?" Methos asked, giving Dean a speculative look. "How about you and me sharing him?"

Dean could feel himself blushing.

Crowley looked him over, leering a little. "Maybe. On special occasions."

"Shut up," Dean said, then smacked Crowley when Crowley started to laugh.

"Don't worry," Crowley said through riffs of laughter. "I don't think Death shares either."

If Dean had had a sharp weapon nearby, Crowley would currently be impaled on it. He looked around desperately for something, anything, to use. Finally he risked a glance at Death. "You could kill him for me, right?"

A very, almost undetectable smile graced Death's lips. "I could, and if you really wished it, I might. But you don't. And don't worry, Dean, my intention is not to ravish you. In my true form, I am not a sexual being." And with that, he vanished.

Dean's mouth hung open even as Crowley dissolved into raucous laughter behind him on the bed. He dropped his head into his hands, and considered all the varied ways he would kill Crowley. Death was so wrong when he said he didn't want to kill the demon, or whatever the hell he was. He settled for shoving Crowley off the bed. "If you ever say stupid shit like that again about me and Death, I will skewer you with a dull knife."

"He'll only like it," Methos told him.

"I will," Crowley assured him.

"Get the fuck out of my bedroom," Dean yelled at them.

"You sure you don't want to join us for a good fuck?" Crowley asked, all innocence.

"No!"

"Oh, well, your loss," Crowley said.

"Although consider it an open invitation," Methos said. "Really."

And there went the blushing again. It was like he was a damn virgin or something. And Death's assurance that he didn't have plans to ravage Dean was somehow not reassuring in the least.

Now they were both laughing, and Dean found a reluctant smile on his face. "Go away."

They left, and Dean found himself alone again in the bedroom, but this time the silence didn't press down on him, and even though he was by himself, he didn't feel lonely. How could he with those two goofballs right down the hall, not to mention Death popping in several times a day? 

He wished Sam were here to laugh at all of this with him, but even that thought only took part of his smile away, as he settled back down in bed.

*****

The fireworks were cool, even if it was Sam's ashes exploding in color in the sky. Crowley made them last for what felt like forever, until Dean's neck hurt from staring up. Dean closed his eyes and he could see the after burn of colors under his eyelids. He felt the sting of tears as he wished Sam were really here, watching with him. He hoped like hell Sammy was watching his own fireworks up in heaven.

As if Crowley had been paying attention, there were one or two more explosions, and then they stopped. Dean wondered where they were, if they were even someplace you could find on a map, and if anyone else had seen the colors exploding in the sky. They'd been awesome, only limited by Crowley's imagination and no doubt tempered by Methos.

"Quite a sendoff," Bobby said. "He'd have liked it."

"Yeah, he would have." 

They'd salted and burned Sam's body, and then repeated the process until there was nothing left but ash. Dean had run his hands through the fine silt, a little filled with wonder that he hadn't had to grieve alone, or with Bobby, which would have consisted of watching the old man trying to drink himself to death. 

A week ago he saw Crowley as nothing more than a demon that was occasionally useful, while now Crowley was someone he might, if forced, consider a friend. And his boyfriend, lover, whatever word you wanted to use, Dean did consider a friend. Life was a trip, no doubt about it.

Methos came to stand next to him, a hand on his shoulder. "I'd like to go out this way, I think."

"Never happen," growled Crowley.

"He's so whipped," Dean said to Methos.

"I heard that," Crowley said lazily. "And I almost resent it. A little. But I do love whips."

Dean snorted. He wasn't quite sure what to do now that the show was over. He didn't think Methos would let Crowley kick him out, but he couldn't stay there forever. Maybe he'd spend the night and leave in the morning. 

"Bobby," Methos said, "you're welcome to spend the night."

"Nah," Bobby said, "I like sleeping in my own bed."

Dean wondered what that would feel like, having your own bed that you slept in every night. He didn't suppose he'd ever know.

"Want me to snap you back?" Crowley asked.

Bobby gave Dean an awkward hug, said, "Don't be a stranger," then nodded at Crowley. After a snap, Bobby was gone. After a second snap, they were back in Crowley's home.

"I guess I'll hit the road tomorrow," Dean told them. "There's still a lot of clean up to do."

"Are you sure?" Methos asked.

"Yeah," Dean said, shrugging. "I gotta leave sometime, right?"

"Yes, you do," Crowley said.

"Not that you're not welcome back here anytime," Methos told him, glaring at Crowley.

"He is?" Crowley complained.

"He is," Methos said firmly.

Crowley put his hands up in exasperation, as if imploring heaven to strike him dead. "Fine, whatever. I'm going to bed."

Methos grinned at him as he walked off. He repeated the spell Crowley had taught him, and made Dean echo it back to him several times. "If you're ever in serious trouble, or just need a break, you use that spell and a door will appear, just like it did in Joe's bar. And if you're in the Northwest again, go visit him. He's a good guy."

"He gonna call that crazy guy with a sword again?"

Methos snickered. "That crazy guy is named Duncan MacLeod, and he's an Immortal like me. He is, actually, a pretty good guy, too, he's just stupidly stubborn and isn't crazy about the idea that I've taken up with a demon."

"Can hardly fault him for that," Dean pointed out.

"I know, which is why I may, in time, forgive him for dousing Crowley with holy water." 

Dean grinned, ignoring the emptiness gaping behind the grin at the thought of the loneliness waiting for him outside of this house. "Thanks, Methos. Really."

"And I'm sorry about your brother," Methos told him, "but I have faith in you, Dean, and you'll be just fine."

Dean wasn't so sure about it, but he nodded. "I'm gonna turn in."

Methos slapped him on the shoulder and left him alone.

Once in the bedroom, Dean looked around. He wasn't tired at all, and if he was someplace with a real address, he'd think about leaving right now. But he had no idea where Crowley's house was, not to mention that his car was back at that bar where Methos' friend worked. 

He went into the living room and turned on the TV, keeping the volume down low so as not to bother the other two men. He fell asleep during an I Dream of Jeanie marathon, having a sneaking suspicion that Crowley had something to do with that. When he woke up there was a blanket on him. 

He was surrounded by nannies. He might mock them when they woke up, but he couldn't deny that it was sort of nice. Really nice, actually. Even Sam hadn't done that shit for him. 

Dean lay there, feeling this weird sort of relief that when he left here, Sam wouldn't be with him. It had been exhausting for the last three years keeping tabs on him. Exhausting and heartbreaking. Not that Dean wouldn't have kept it up if Sam had chosen to live, but Sam hadn't. He'd made his choice, and Dean found he was grateful that he'd had a chance to say goodbye, and that he knew Sam was up in heaven, hopefully getting some well-earned relaxation.

"I can feel your itchy feet from here," Crowley said, standing at the doorway. "You going to stick around for breakfast, or do you want out?"

"Out, I think," Dean said. "If I stay any longer, I might not want to leave."

"Then, leave, by all means," Crowley said quickly. "Please." He snapped his fingers and handed Dean a full thermos and a brown paper bag with grease stains on it that smelled wonderful. "The same spell that got you here will get you out, same place you left. If you want to go someplace else, you need a different spell, but you've got what you need right now."

Dean was pretty sure he had it memorized. "Thanks, Crowley."

"Don't thank me," Crowley said. "Thanks Methos." He was trying to sound cranky but he had this soft smile on his face that made it clear that what Methos wanted, Methos got, and then Methos made up for it in the bedroom.

"Yeah, well, thanks anyway. I know it wasn't all him."

"We are not going to have a moment, Winchester. Get the fuck out of my home."

Nodding, delighted not to be having a moment with Crowley, Dean said the spell and a door opened up, looking just like the door, 53 Barker Ave, where he had lived with Carmen. "Nice."

Crowley was snickering as Dean opened it up and walked through.

*****

“Oh, thank God,” Crowley said. “Alone at last.” He rubbed his hands together.

“Nice try, but I know you’re as worried about him as I am.”

“Do not say that,” Crowley growled, shaking a finger at him. “I loathe him.” 

Methos rolled his eyes. “Is there a way you can keep track of him?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Do you really need me to start listing all the kind things you did for Dean over the last few days?”

Crowley was hurt. Deeply. “First of all, if, and I say if, I ever did anything nice for Dean Winchester, it was for ultimately nefarious purposes. If he trusts me, I can talk him into things, like not killing me. And second of all, if, and I still say if, I did anything nice for him, you, the love of my life, the one person who knows how much I despise being thought of as nice, should know better than to say anything like that to me.”

Methos reeled him in and kissed him. “Have I mentioned today how much I adore you?”

“No,” Crowley said, pouting, “and I find that deeply hurtful as well.”

“Aw,” Methos said, and kissed him again, this time with tongue, and his hands cupped around Crowley’s head as he plundered Crowley’s mouth, until Crowley was gasping for breath. “How can I make it up to you?”

“Isn’t it my turn to die while we’re having sex?” Crowley asked.

“You don’t ever really die,” Methos pointed out.

“I know,” Crowley said, “but it still hurts, and it’s fun pretending to die.” He grinned, waggling his eyebrows. “How about strangling me? I know you want to.”

Methos laughed, but he took Crowley’s hand and led him to the bedroom, grabbing a cashmere scarf along the way.

*****

Dean walked out of Crowley's door and ended up back in Joe’s bar, and the next thing he knew he was hit in the face with a bucket of water.

“What the fuck?” he yelled, wiping his face off, looking down at his shirt which was now drenched, and the puddle now forming on the floor.

Next, there was a sword at his throat.

That got Dean’s attention. He pulled out his gun and aimed it at the fucker’s chest. 

“Mac, cut the crap,” a man was saying, and Dean realized it was Joe. “He’s not a demon. He’s a friend of Methos.”

“And that’s supposed to reassure me? How do you know he’s not a demon?”

“Well for one thing, because that holy water didn’t do squat to me except piss me off,” Dean said with some considerable heat. “Asshole.” He decided this must be the ex-friend of Methos. 

“Here,” Joe said, thrusting a towel at Dean, and glowering at the man who was still holding a sword at Dean’s neck.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Death said, and he reached out a finger to touch the asshole’s sword and it disintegrated, cascading to the floor in thousands of small metal balls the size of BBs. 

“O-kay,” Dean said with a wide grin, “that was cool.” He turned to Death. “Thanks.” Unbelievably cool. “You following me around?” He put his gun back into his jacket pocket.

Death, to his astonishment, looked a little sheepish. 

Out of the corner of his eye Dean saw the stupid guy head for Death with intent in his eyes. “Don’t touch him,” Dean said. It stopped the guy for a moment, but Dean could still see how pissed he was so, giving Death a wide birth, Dean circled in front of him until he was standing between Death and stupid guy. He couldn’t remember what the guy’s name was, if Methos had even told him. “Really, don’t touch him.” He knew the guy was Immortal, but he wasn't sure that Death couldn't still kill him.

The guy hadn’t moved, so maybe he wasn't completely stupid. “That sword was a priceless antique given to me by a Samurai warrior in 1778.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be waving it in people’s faces for no good reason,” Dean snapped back. It was odd knowing Death was right behind him. Odd and scary, because if he backed up too far, he’d die. Although it was possible Death would revive him despite all his talking about the natural order of things. But also odd as in reassuring, because there was no one better to have at your back than Death. Not like anyone could kill him, right? He found himself biting back a grin. 

“He destroyed the sword, he can remake it,” the guy insisted, and Dean was back to thinking he was totally stupid.

“Yeah, he destroyed it because you were about to stab me with it,” Dean said. He turned to Death. “Right? Or maybe you just hated the sword?”

The sheepishness was totally gone now replaced with the usual ‘you don’t even interest me enough as a bug to squash you under my feet’ look. Death looked at stupid guy, saying, “Be more cautious whom you threaten.” With that, Death disappeared.

A part of Dean relaxed, even as a part of him was disappointed. He used the towel to wipe his hair and face, having forgotten to do that while Death was there. When he was done, he looked up and saw the guy and Joe staring at him. “What?”

“Who was that man?” stupid guy asked.

“What’s your name?” Dean asked.

“Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” the man said with a hint of defiance.

Of course he'd have some pretentious name like that. “Yeah. Whatever. And who he is, is none of your business.” Not like they’d believe him anyway. 

“He destroyed my sword!” MacLeod yelled.

“You were pointing it at me,” Dean yelled back, enjoying himself.

“Could you both just stop,” Joe interrupted.

Ignoring him, MacLeod asked angrily, “Are you in league with the demon that has ensorcelled Methos?”

“Ensorcelled?” Dean snorted. Who talked that way? Oh, yeah, this was another Immortal. “How old are you anyway?”

“None of your business,” MacLeod bit back, mimicking Dean’s words.

“Oh, that was mature,” Dean said.

“Hey!” Joe yelled. He pushed a broom into Dean’s hands. “Sweep.”

“Why should I sweep?” 

“Your friend did this, you sweep.”

Death wasn’t exactly Dean’s friend, but he could see the logic, so he swept. “If you knew Methos at all," Dean griped, "you’d know he wasn’t the ensorcelling type.” Dean had never met anyone more grounded considering what his life had been like. It was like the guy had a mountain inside of him where it counted. Unlike Dean’s insides which felt like a pile of shifting sand.

“I keep telling him that,” Joe said.

“Have you even tried to talk to him without your sword in your hand?” Dean asked, sweeping the BBs MacLeod’s way, enjoying the way they almost made the guy slip. “Maybe you'll have to now.”

MacLeod made it to the bar and sat down, still clearly fuming. “I loved that sword!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve got a dozen more.” The guy had antique store written all over him, and not in the gay way. “What do you want me to do with these?” he asked Joe, looking down at the large mound of pellets that used to be a sword. He couldn’t wait to tell Methos about this.

Joe brought a dustpan over and he crouched down and held it while Dean swept the pellets into it. He had to empty it twice before Dean could sweep the last of them into the dustpan. He handed Joe the broom and then sauntered over to the counter.

Joe put the broom and dustpan away, and then put a Coke on the counter for Dean.

“Thanks.”

“A Coke?” MacLeod asked. “Only children drink Coke at a bar.” 

His voice was scathing and Dean’s fingers tightened around the bottle, seconds away from throwing it at the man.

“Shut up, Mac,” Joe said. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, or what you’re doing. You haven’t for weeks now. Maybe you should just button it and listen for a change.”

Dean totally got why Methos considered MacLeod an ex-friend, and he wasn’t seeing anything that would turn him back into a friend. In fact, just because he felt like being a jerk to the guy, he said, “I can see why Methos says you’re his ex-friend, cuz you know what, buddy, you’re an asshole.” 

MacLeod glared at him. “Where is Methos?”

“Right through that door I just came out of.”

“More magic,” MacLeod said in a tone that sounded as if he’d said ‘more rotting corpses’.

“What’s your problem? Are you trying to tell me that as long as you’ve been alive, you haven’t seen anything like magic or power?” Dean asked. “There’re a lot of people out there who would look at someone like you or Methos and call you magic.”

MacLeod’s eyes suddenly widened and he spun to face Joe. “You were crouching.”

Joe looked wary. “Yeah, so?”

“You don’t crouch.”

“Why doesn’t he crouch?” Dean asked. How fucking weird was this conversation. “Everyone crouches.”

“Not someone with two prostheses instead of legs.”

Joe let out what Dean supposed was supposed to be an airy, ‘you crazy thing you’ sort of laugh, but it sounded more strangled than that. “I’ve got real legs, Mac, what are you talking about?”

MacLeod lunged over the bar and grabbed Joe’s legs. “My God, they are real.”

“Yeah, maybe you guys need a bedroom,” Dean suggested.

“How do you have real legs?” He got way into Joe’s space, snapping out, “Is this that demon’s work?”

“He said no one would remember,” Joe finally eked out. “No one else remembers, why do you remember?”

Dean stood up, feeling like he needed to get into Joe’s face. “You sold your soul for legs?”

“No! Well, yes, but then Methos, oh, fuck,” Joe said, leaning against the back wall, causing several bottles to lean precariously.

MacLeod pulled Joe away and dragged him to one of the tables, forcing him to sit. Then he stormed to the front door, switched the Open to Closed, and locked the door. Dean looked at his watch and saw it was 2:00 in the afternoon. Weird. It’d been early morning at Crowley’s.

“Tell me what happened,” MacLeod insisted. 

Joe sighed. “Fine, I got drunk, someone told me how I could make a deal, so I went and made a deal for some real legs. Methos found out, got angry, went to find the demon to get me out of the deal. He did, and I got to keep my legs and my soul, so happy ending for everyone, okay? So just leave it.”

“How did Methos get you out of the deal?” MacLeod asked.

Dean thought it was blow jobs, but what did he know.

“Ask him,” Joe said stubbornly.

“Did he give himself over to the power of that demon?" MacLeod bellowed at Dean. "Is that what happened?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Dean yelled. “They’re in love with each other. Are you blind? Crowley let the deal go for Methos. There’s no ensorcelling, no dark magic, no deals, just love and lust.” He poked MacLeod in the chest. “And again, for someone who claims he’s Methos’ friends you’re an idiot to think Methos is weak enough to have something like that happen to him. I’ve only known him a week, and I know better than that.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” MacLeod said. “He has a dark past that weakens him.”

Dean was incredulous. “I know all about his dark past and it doesn’t weaken him, it makes him stronger, and the fact that he keeps all that leashed all the time makes him the strongest person I’ve ever met. You are such a fucking idiot, and you are totally going to stay an ex-friend, unless you get your head out of your ass.” 

MacLeod looked stunned. “He told you?”

“Yeah, he told me.” Dean wasn’t about to tell him why he told him. "Listen. I'm just a guy. Not like Methos is just a guy, but a real human guy. Crowley is a demon, but he's not bad for a demon. He gave Joe's legs back, right?" Dean couldn't believe he was defending the jerk, but he sort felt like he had to, at least until Crowley did something stupid again. "If you want to ever be friends with Methos again, you need to get over this. Personally, Crowley's not my type, but you could do worse for a demon."

"And who was that creature who destroyed my sword?" MacLeod demanded.

"He's a little harder to explain," Dean said. "And I’m not sure you'd believe me anyway. I'll let Methos explain that after you're talking again."

"So you really believe this demon means Methos no harm?"

Dean grimaced, wondering how in hell he ended up on Crowley's side. "Yeah. Crowley's stupid over Methos."

MacLeod sort of deflated in front of his eyes, and he sat down at the bar. "I really liked that sword."

"Sorry, buddy," Dean said. "I can ask Dea…that guy if he can remake it for you." Weird to think that if Dean asked it, Death might do it. Dean found himself wondering what Death looked like in his true form, and wondered if it was like Castiel's and would burn out Dean's eyes and bust his ear drums.

MacLeod glumly shook his head. "It wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be the sword given to me by my friend."

Dean hadn't seen Death when he'd first gotten out of his cage, but he'd heard something that sounded like wings. It made him think of Crowley's wings, or at least the wing's he'd put on, and then apparently used to make Methos' eyes glaze over. And what the hell was Crowley if he wasn't all demon? What else was he? He heard his name being called, and he suspected it wasn't for the first time. "What?"

"Will you tell Methos I'd like to speak with him," MacLeod was saying, looking very sincere. "Tell him I will apologize."

"He's expecting groveling," Dean warned him.

Joe snickered, and MacLeod smiled, making him into a really handsome guy, and maybe someone who could be a good friend instead of an asshole. "That sounds just like Methos. Fortunately, I know how to grovel very well, so please tell Methos to call me."

"Tell him yourself," Dean said, who turned and said the spell Methos had taught him, a little surprised that it worked and a door appeared. This one looked suspiciously like the pearly gates; all it was missing was Saint Peter. "Hysterical," Dean muttered. He opened the door and yelled, "Methos?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All right, all of you loving this fic, you can thank my stalwart commenter Nane for this being the story I will be working on until it's done. I needed someone to make a decision for me because I was waffling with too many stories half written. She chose this, so this gets done first. Then she chose the next Macavity story, so this and that will be story number 1 and 2. I'll think of another regular commenter to help me pick after that, but she got to pick first! Thanks for all the loving comments, my dear.

There was a thump and a thud, and then Methos appeared from the back of the house looking mostly clothed. "Oh, hey, Dean. Didn't expect to hear from you so quickly."

"I've got someone here ready to grovel," Dean said.

Methos' eyes narrowed. "Really?"

MacLeod peered in past Dean. "I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?"

"Wait there," Methos commanded, then to Dean he added, "You can come in, he can't."

"Hey!" MacLeod complained.

"You're not forgiven at all yet," Methos snapped, "and I'm sure as hell not letting you anywhere near Crowley." He strode off.

"He's pissed at you," Dean said with a teasing grin.

MacLeod looked grumpy, but he didn't try to get past Dean. He did, however, look around curiously, his eyes lighting up at some of the art on the walls.

Methos came back a few minutes later, pushed Dean and MacLeod back through the doorway and followed them out. He shut the door behind him, and a few seconds later it blinked out. He handed Dean a piece of paper. "Crowley thought you might be interested in this."

Dean looked it over and saw it was a hunt in Idaho. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. Glad to have a hunt he guessed. Painful to think he'd be doing it without Sam. Sort of sorry he'd be heading away from Methos and Crowley, and that was weird as fuck and all the more reason to get on the road. "I'll leave you to your reunion, then," Dean said. "I'm off."

"I didn't mean to chase you off," Methos protested.

"It's what I do," Dean said, with a shit-eating grin, hoping Methos was buying it.

"Why don't you check it out, but then come back for dinner? You know how."

Funny to think his home…Dean corrected himself, Crowley's home, could follow him around. "I'll see how it goes."

"I mean it," Methos said. "You can get a hotel room if you don't want to spend the night, but at least come have dinner."

"I will if I can," was all Dean could say. He couldn't imagine Crowley wanted Dean just to make himself at home, no matter what Methos said.

"I will have Crowley track you down if you drop off the grid for too long."

"Okay, mom," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "Joe, nice to meet you."

"You're welcome back any time."

"MacLeod, good luck with the groveling."

"Thanks," MacLeod said. "I think I'll need it."

Dean had to tell Methos one thing. "Come here." He took Methos to the trash can and pointed at it, then whispered, "Death turned MacLeod's sword into this."

"Death was here?" Methos asked, eyebrows up.

"Yup."

"Why?"

"Who the hell knows," Dean lied.

Methos reached into the trash can and brought up a handful of pellets. "This is your katana?" he asked MacLeod.

MacLeod nodded with a serious pout.

"Remind me never to get near you with my Ivanhoe when the Big Bad is around," he said softly to Dean with a wry grin. "This is a shame," he said next, pouring the metal pellets back into the trash can. "It was a beautiful sword."

"He had it at my neck," Dean snapped out, suddenly annoyed.

"Ah," Methos said. "That makes more sense." He gave Dean a real grin. "He is a little sweet on you. Even you have to admit it."

"No, I really don't," Dean said, and with that, he gave the three men a flippant wave, checked his pocket for his keys, unlocked the door and walked out.

*****

"I'm waiting," Methos said, glaring at the idiot Scotsman standing in front of him.

"I'm sorry," Mac said. "Truly. I really thought he had you under a spell."

In a way he did, Methos thought to himself. He had never fallen so completely, so irrevocably, in love with anyone in all his millennium of living. It killed him that Crowley had been around all that time and Methos hadn't known. 

"Methos?" Mac asked tentatively. "Did you hear what I said?"

Methos shook off Crowley's bewitchment and frowned at Duncan. "That's it? One apology? And how about what you did to Crowley."

"If he is willing to talk face-to-face with me and stop hiding behind your apron strings, I will apologize to him too."

Methos shared a 'what the fuck' look with Joe. "So much for groveling."

"Yeah, can't say I'm really surprised. He sucks at this stuff," Joe said, ignoring Duncan's huff of annoyance.

"It's because of that stick up his ass. He always thinks he's right, so therefore he never has to apologize," Methos agreed.

"Hey!" Duncan complained. "I owe you an apology, and I have made it. And I canna help it if I am less than comfortable apologizing to a demon. A demon, Methos! Why a demon when you can have anyone in the entire world? What would Alexa think that she could be so easily replaced with--" Duncan's words were cut off with a small shriek as he found a sword at his neck and two eyes filled with fury glowering at him.

"Oh, Mac," Joe said sadly. "You are too stupid for words sometimes."

"Tell me you wouldn't ask me what I was doing if I was having sex with a demon," Duncan pleaded with Methos. 

"I would at least get some facts about the situation before I attacked him, and I sure as hell wouldn't throw Tessa in your face, you ass!"

"All right, I deserved that," Duncan said.

"I have in my life groveled for many things," Methos bit out, slowly dropping his sword while losing none of his menace, "for food, for water, for a merciful death, it is something I am well acquainted with. So let me assure you that whatever the hell you think this is? It isn't groveling. Take some lessons before you call me again. Joe, let me know when he isn't around and I'll be glad to come by and visit."

"Wait," Duncan said, holding his hands up.

"For what?" Methos snapped.

"Who was that man who just left?"

"Dean," Joe said.

"This Dean. Who was that creature who protected him?"

"Death," Methos said sharply. "The real one."

Duncan's eyes widened in shock, then in anger. "You jest with me. Is he yet another of the men you rode with?"

"Really?" Methos said, beyond pissed off at this point. "Really?" Finally, deciding he'd had it, he moved closer to Duncan, and then let loose with a blindingly fast and powerful uppercut, throwing Duncan several feet back to land on his back. He recited the spell to get home, didn't even bother to notice what type of door appeared, simply turned the knob, walked inside and slammed it shut.

"So that went well?" Crowley asked, walking in from the kitchen.

Methos took a deep breath in an effort to not direct any of his anger on Crowley, and then found himself derailed by a delicious aroma filling the house. "Is that stuffed pig?" He sniffed again and followed his nose into the kitchen, ignoring Crowley's smug grin. 

Crowley had changed the kitchen to one better suited to medieval times compete with a fireplace huge enough to hold a dance in, within which a stuffed pig turned on a spit. Methos could smell the ginger and saffron and it brought back such vivid memories of that time in his life: it was as if he could hear the blacksmith with his anvil and hammer beating out sheets of iron into swords, and the cacophony of noise in the village filled with laughing children and yelling mothers, and vendors selling their baked goods and wares, along with the clopping of horses and bleating of goats, and he closed his eyes and let it all take him back.

Until it all got a little too real and he opened his eyes and saw that he was actually back there, that Crowley had recreated the entire scene he'd had in his head, including the appropriate outfits for the two of them. Methos let his head fall back and he laughed, putting his arm through Crowley's, and they both took a walk through history. 

*****

Dean hadn’t realized what a distraction Methos, Crowley, and even Methos' two friends, or one friend, and one asshole friend, had been until he was alone. Without the distractions, Sam's death sat on his chest like a killing weight. 

How had he let it happen? Why had he listened to Sam? There had to have been something he could have done. Made a deal with Death. Another deal with Death. Like the last one had gone so well. 

Dean thought about that nurse whenever he needed a little something extra to hate himself. The one who'd died because he wouldn't reap that little girl. The one who was supposed to have a ton of kids and then even more grandkids, and now all that was destroyed because of him. Something else he'd fucked up.

He let out a merciless laugh and shook his head. What a life he'd led. Everything he touched died. And he wasn't exaggerating or sulking; it was nothing but the truth. Sometimes it was an okay thing, like killing supernatural sons of bitches that were attacking people, but he'd managed to kill everything he loved, too. Except for Bobby, and that was probably just a matter of time. His dad, Helen, Jo, Sam. Jesus, Sam.

Dean hunched over, his face in his hands. And for what? So he could live? So he could keep hunting by himself until he became another Gordon, more monster than hunter? Why was he the one still alive? Dad had been a better hunter than Dean had ever been, and Sam…

Dean should have left Sam in Stanford when Dad went missing. And yeah, maybe the yellow-eyed demon would have still killed Jess and pulled Sam back in, but at least it wouldn't be Dean's fault. Another pained laugh escaped. "No," he said to an empty room. "That one's on Mom. Nice to know fucking over the ones you love runs in the family." 

He'd driven all afternoon and evening, stopping only for a quick dinner, doing his best to push the loneliness away, pushing away the thought this was his life now: eating all his meals alone and spending every night in a hotel room either alone or fucking someone whose name he wouldn't even remember the next morning. There was no hope, this time, for a reconciliation with Sam to help get him through a week. 

So here he was at two am, sitting on his bed in one of a thousand rooms just like it, and Dean was so tired he could hardly see straight. But every time he closed his eyes, there were so many regrets waiting for him it was like an angry mob with pitchforks and torches hunting him down.

If he knew what he was here to hunt, he'd be out there already looking for it, because it beat staying here alone, but all he knew was the name of the town. He'd have to ask around tomorrow to try to figure out why Crowley had sent him here. For all Dean knew it was to get Dean out of the picture. After all, no one had opened a door in the road as he was driving past to make sure he came for dinner. It was humiliating that that had stung a little. That even Methos didn't care.

God, he was pathetic. He let himself sit there for another couple of minutes, but then he forced himself to get up, to put his duffel bag on Sam's…on the other bed, and start pulling out his weapons. He hadn't used any of them in at least a week, and everything needed to be cleaned and checked. He sure as hell wasn't getting any sleep tonight so he might as well get something done.

*****

Methos finished cutting the 's' of his name into Crowley's chest. 

Crowley wasn't in the best position, with his body flat on the bed, wrists and ankles tied to the bed posts leaving him spread eagled. But, even with that, he tried to crook his neck down so he could see what Methos had just carved into his skin. "Nice."

"I thought so," Methos said, sitting back, admiring his work.

"It didn't hurt very much, though," Crowley complained. "And the blood trickling down my sides tickles."

"I wasn't trying to hurt you," Methos said, drawing his own finger down the blade, slicing it open. He let a few drops fall on Crowley's chest. "I was more interested in marking you." He rubbed his blood into the letters.

"Does this make us blood brothers?" Crowley asked. "Get a mirror or something, so I can see." The bloody thing would heal before Crowley got free.

Methos found a mirror and held it up to Crowley so he could see the letters Methos had cut into his chest. It definitely said Methos, very clearly. "Really nice. I wish it would stay like that," Crowley said. "Maybe you can brand it in next time. It might stay a little long--" He was derailed mid-thought, all his attention now on Methos who was lubing his cock up with their mixed blood. Crowley arched up towards him, aching to have Methos fuck him.

There wasn't much give, but Methos positioned himself between Crowley's legs and lifted up his ass. With a moment for positioning, Methos thrust in. Oh, that hurt just right. His ass burned, but Crowley loved it. Loved it so much. He let out a delighted moan when Methos cut a straight line across his chest, right under his name, as if to emphasize his ownership. Crowley wanted to return the favor and, as if that was all it took, Methos cut the bonds holding his hands and legs, and Crowley grabbed the knife from him.

"Wait," Methos said, as Crowley put the point of his knife against Methos' heart.

Crowley waited, one hand stroking himself as Methos thrust over and over again, until Methos started to shake. Crowley knew it would be any second, and he could feel his own orgasm threatening, his own body on the very edge.

"Now!" Methos demanded, and Crowley shoved the knife into his heart just as Methos climaxed. As the blood gushed out of the killing wound, Crowley came with a howl, his and Methos' eyes locked in agonized ecstasy. 

Then, Methos died, and slumped onto Crowley. Crowley rolled him over and pulled the knife out, leaning down to lick at Methos' blood, running his hands through the bloody mess and painting his body with it. How the hell did he get so lucky? Methos was bloody perfect for him, pun intended. Bloody perfect.

He watched Methos, sat vigil over his dead body, waiting for that instant of revival. The first time Methos had died, when fucking Sam Winchester had killed him, Crowley had freaked out, suddenly unsure that he would come back. He'd sat there, waiting, breathless, wondering who he would make a deal with to get the man back, when abruptly, just like now, Methos let out a gasp, his body jerking as he came back alive.

For a man who dealt with death all the time, it was a marvel to see. Electricity arced around the wound over his heart as it healed before his eyes. Then Methos opened his eyes and grinned. "That was fantastic! I've always wanted to try that."

"Anytime," Crowley said happily. "Sex, blood, and death. Three of my favorite things. But why didn't you have one of your Immortal buddies do that with you?"

"Because there weren't any of them I trusted enough to do it. For all I knew, as soon as I was dead, they'd be cutting my head off."

Crowley snickered. "A lot of people would say I'm an odd one to trust."

"And yet here I am," Methos said. "Fucked out and alive." He kissed Crowley's nose, licking some blood off his lips. "You look perfect with my blood all over you."

"I want to try it, too," Crowley said. "It looked divine. You looked divine, hovering there between orgasm and death." He shivered, just to think of it. Crowley glanced down at his chest, sad to see that the cuts were healing.  
"Maybe a tattoo?"

Methos laughed. "Clean us up, will you?"

Crowley snapped his fingers then pulled Methos down on top of him to hold him tight. So bloody perfect. A romp through the tenth century and then staggering sex.

"Oh," Methos said, "did Dean drop by? I forgot I invited him for dinner. That was rude of me."

Crowley rolled his eyes but did a quick check. "He's cleaning his guns. He's fine."

"Somehow I doubt that." Methos dropped a kiss on Crowley's lips and then got out of bed.

"Where are you going?"

"I want to check in with him. I won't be a moment."

"He's fine," Crowley protested.

"It's his first day alone. He won't be fine." At Crowley's pout, he crossed his arms over his chest. "His brother just died."

Crowley let out a huff. "Fine." He snapped his fingers and clothed them both. "You know a lot of the human race is alone and miserable. I hope you're not planning on adopting them all."

"Just Dean."

"Should I be jealous?" Crowley asked with a grin, not jealous at all. Dean could never give Methos what he needed. Ever.

"Never," Methos said, kissing him long and hard. "And I mean that."

Grinning, Crowley snapped his fingers again and grinned when Dean almost had a heart attack, gracelessly falling off the bed, when they showed up in his room.

"What the fuck?" Dean yelled.

"Hi, Dean," Methos said. "Sorry about dinner. Crowley took me to the tenth century for lunch and I lost track of time."

Dean stared at him, then at Crowley, then at Methos again. "Like actually back in time, or just something that looked like it was back in time?"

"A little bit of both," Crowley said. "It was the past, but…it's complicated. You can't change the past, well, not that far back, but time takes care of itself, and makes it so you can't create time paradoxes."

"Like killing your ancestor?" Methos asked.

"Right. But you can go back and see the past, and if it's not too much in the past it can be changed, as Dean can attest to with his own crossroads deal, but once it's done and over, the past doesn’t really like to be messed with. More's the pity."

Dean looked really pissed about something. 

"What'd I say?" Crowley asked, hand innocently on his chest.

"Castiel said he took me back to the past to try to change things. Nice to know he was lying to me."

"When you're involved," Crowley said, "I think all the rules go out the window. Especially with your pet angel."

"What were you trying to change?" Methos asked.

"To stop my mom from making a deal with the yellow-eyed demon," Dean said with a choked unhappy laugh.

Crowley's eyebrows went up. "Nice family. Three of you make crossroad deals with a demon, and one of you was a demon. Talk about your awkward family dinners."

"Shut the fuck up, Crowley," Dean said.

"Temper, temper."

Methos smacked Crowley on the back of his head. "Have you eaten?" he asked Dean.

Crowley considered it a love tap, even if his ears were ringing. 

"Yeah, I stopped for a burger a few hours ago. You know it's like the middle of the night, right?"

"And I can see we've totally interrupted your beddy-bye time," Crowley said with a pointed look at all the weapons.

"You okay?" Methos asked Dean, ignoring Crowley.

"Peachy," Dean said. He took a breath, blew it out, and said, "Look, I get that you're trying to help, but sooner or later I'm gonna have to deal with Sam being dead. That's all there is to it."

"Doesn't mean you can't have friends help you out," Methos said.

"Don't look at me," Crowley said. "Demons don't do friends."

Dean rolled his eyes. "What's that line, that Shakespeare line?"

"I think the lady doth protest too much," Methos said. "Shakespeare. Now he could throw an orgy."

"Really?" Dean asked, his face lightening for the first time since they arrived.

"Not as good as Caligula," Crowley said.

"He was completely insane, and I should know, I was part of his court. He killed me at least four times," Methos complained.

"Didn't he notice when you kept showing up again?" Dean asked.

"No," Methos said. "Like I said, completely insane."

"Some of my favorite people throughout history were completely insane," Crowley said. "They add a lovely piquant extra to the murders they commit and think how dull history would be without them. Besides, Deano here isn't exactly rowing with all oars."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean said, looking offended.

"Do you really have to ask?" Crowley asked, looking sharply at Dean. 

"I am not insane," Dean protested.

"Most of the world would disagree with you. You hunt supernatural beings most people don't think even exist. You hang around with an Immortal and a Demon, and Death, the most powerful being that ever was or ever will be, rescues you from a rabid Scotsman. You call that sane?" Crowley had gotten a good laugh out of that story. It was so ironic that Death was watching out for Dean. Of course, Dean was one of Death's best customers, both in the amount of times he'd died, not to mention he number of things he'd killed.

"That doesn't make me insane," Dean said, a little petulantly. 

"And if he's insane," Methos said, "then we all are."

"My point, exactly," Crowley said.

"If this is you hinting around for an orgy with me, you can forget it," Dean said.

Methos barked out a laugh.

Crowley grinned. "I've got all the lovin' I can handle, thanks all the same. Nice to know it's crossed your mind."

"It has not crossed my mind," Dean objected hotly. "You were the one talking about how much you like orgies with insane people and then calling me insane. Just shut the fuck up."

"Did you ever take that angel to bed, Dean?" Crowley asked. "Just answer me that. Tell me you deflowered an angel. Inquiring minds want to know." He waggled his eyebrows.

Dean sent Methos a beseeching look.

Methos shrugged back at him, but he started taking the weapons off the second bed.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean said.

"Darling," Crowley asked cautiously, "what are you doing?"

"We're spending the night. And then we can help Dean with his hunt tomorrow."

"I am not going demon hunting with Dean Winchester," Crowley yelled.

"You gave him the hunt in the first place," Methos argued. "Obviously you could care less about whatever it is he's hunting."

"He being the operative word. I am not sleeping in this miserable excuse for a hotel room."

"So fix it," Methos told him, taking a moment to admire one of Dean's knives.

Crowley wondered for a moment if Methos was worth this bullshit, even though he knew the answer was a very annoying resounding yes. But why, oh why, had Methos become attached to a Winchester? Why? Knowing he'd end up leaving here without Methos if he tried to go, he snapped his finger and smiled at the luxurious hotel room that now lay before him. "That's better." They were all in a sunken living room with thick white carpeting and black leather couches. Just the living room was five times as large as the entire revolting hotel room Dean had been in. 

"Lovely," Methos said, staring around him with appreciation and then staring at Crowley with lewd appreciation. Crowley grinned at him.

"Now we can have our own room," Crowley said, pointing at the conveniently placed doors on opposite sides of the huge living room area. He poked Dean with a finger. "Look, I even put in a Jacuzzi for you."

Methos walked over to the refrigerator in the gourmet kitchen and opened the door. "Change this to something non-alcoholic please."

"We can't watch him all the time," Crowley groused. "Do you really think he won't start drinking again?"

"I'm right here, you asswipe," Dean snapped.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "I'm still the King of Hell, boyo, and you'd do well to remember."

"Or what? You'll kill me? Feel free," Dean said, even though he looked startled after the words left his mouth. "I'm going to bed," was all he said after that, leaving his weapons where they now lay scattered on a couch and on the floor, went into the bedroom closest to him, and slammed the door behind him.

"That could have gone better," Methos said.

Crowley took Methos' face between his hands. "This will not end well, Methos. Sam was everything to him, and now he doesn't have anything to live for."

"Not if I can stop it," Methos said.

"You can't be with him all the time."

"Actually I can."

Crowley sighed. "Fine. If you want to take Dean Winchester on as a cause, I won't stop you. Just don't expect him to thank you."

"I spent hundreds of years wishing I could die. You don't know how many times I tried to take my own head off."

Crowley grimaced. "That had to be ugly." His hand moved to the nape of Methos neck and he leaned his forehead against Methos'. "Let me be the first to tell you how very glad I am that you failed."

"Sweet talk, Crowley? I'm touched."

"You should be. I don't drag out that treacle for just anyone."

"Can you two shut the fuck up? I'm trying to sleep in here," Dean hollered.

"Ah, the dulcet tones of a Winchester snipe." And what the fuck was he still doing here? He was babysitting Dean Winchester again. Methos was almost more trouble than he was worth. Almost. He let Methos' take his hand to pull him into the other bedroom. Who was he kidding? He was completely whipped and loving it.

*****

Dean lay on his bed, listening as Methos and Crowley whispered to each other until the other bedroom door closed. He had to admit this bed was the most comfortable thing he'd ever felt; Crowley was all about comfort and class, even if he was a douchebag. It made him think about Gabriel for a moment, and how not classy he was. At least he hadn't gone out that way, killed by his own brother. At least he and Sam…Dean's eyes welled up and he pushed a fisted hand against the pain in his chest.

He had mixed feelings about Methos' and Crowley's appearance. He had to admit it was nice not to have been forgotten, and Dean could admit that a trip to the tenth century would take precedence over dinner. It was sort of a mind fuck to think that Methos had already been alive for several thousand years by then. And who knew how long Crowley had been around.

On the other hand, and he knew it was stupid, but he'd been getting a good misery party going. And having them here was just putting it off. Sooner or later they'd lose interest. What did he have to offer them? And that wasn't self-pity, it was the truth. He wasn't smart or well-traveled, or educated, or thousands of years old. He was a hunter. It's all he'd ever been, and all he was good for, and Crowley was one of the things he hunted.

He was tempted to go back out into the living room to work on his weapons, but he didn't really want to deal with either of his babysitters. There was a knock on his door.

"What?' he growled out.

Crowley poked his head in. "Don't blame me for this. It was Methos' idea."

"What the hell…" Dean started.

Crowley snapped his fingers and Dean fell asleep.

*****

The only thing that kept him from being truly pissed off when he woke up was that he'd actually slept through the night and hadn't had any nightmares. It had been years since that had happened.

There was another knock on his door, and before he could say anything, it was pushed open and Methos was there with a tray of food. "Breakfast in bed," Methos said with a grin. He sat on Dean's bed and handed him a cup of coffee.

Dean rubbed at his eyes and sat up, looking at all the food Methos had brought in: bacon, pancakes, French toast, hash browns, toast, pastries, fruit, not to mention orange juice and coffee.

"Sweet," Dean said. Breakfast in bed was another first. He'd brought breakfast to Cassie, but it had never been the other way around. Not that Methos was…Dean decided to stop listening to himself and grabbed a plate. "'s' good," Dean said a few minutes later after swallowing down the perfect mouthful of pancakes, butter, and maple syrup.

"Crowley knows how to put on a spread," Methos said in satisfaction.

"Yeah, there's a lot of effort that goes into snapping his fingers."

"Hey," Methos said, sounding affronted, "he cooked all of this."

"He did not."

"He did. He's an excellent cook. Both of us are. I think it has to do with the fact that we both had to learn how to cook before there was anything like a cookbook. All trial and error. It gets in your head that way." He stretched out his legs and wiggled his toes. "Of course, I'm too lazy to cook most of the time, so it's excellent that he likes to cook."

"Really?"

Methos grinned at him. "That was almost all his cooking you were eating when you were at our house."

Dean didn't know what to do with that information. He looked at the food on his plate, thinking that Crowley cooked it all. Nope, too weird to compute. He shoveled another mouthful in.

"Where is he?" Dean asked.

"He had to go take care of something in Hell. Another uprising, he said. Apparently it happens all the time."

Dean had first-hand experience with that. Not that Alistair ever got tired of him, but the regimes around Alistair were constantly in flux. "You're not worried he'll get hurt?"

"No," Methos said. "He's very sneaky. They won't even know what hit them."

Dean wondered for a very brief second what Hell would have been like for him if Crowley had been the king of it while he'd been there. Standing in lines didn't sound so bad. Then just that fast, the entire idea of it got him mad. "You get that he is actually the king of Hell?"

"I do."

"And that everyone probably isn't just standing around in lines. They take humans and turn them into demons. They were trying to do that with me."

"And they failed," Methos said. "Remember that."

"Only because of Castiel."

"Only because you were worth saving."

"Only because they hoped they could get to me before I broke the first seal," Dean shot back.

"And he still rescued you anyway, and loved you enough, and trusted you enough, to turn his back on heaven. I get the regret and the shame and the guilt, Dean, I really do. Probably better than most. And I'll warn you that you never really get rid of it; you just learn to deal with it better. But it's past time for you to stop thinking that you're nobody special."

"I'm not."

"So tell me the name of one other person on Earth who was rescued from Hell by an angel, helped stop an apocalypse, has Death come to his rescue, has breakfast cooked for him by the King of Hell, and gets to eat it with an Immortal who is over 5000 years old. Name me one other person. Just one. Come on." Methos grinned at him.

Dean just stared at him, but then he had to grin back at Methos. "Fine. So call me special. My life still sucks."

"Life does suck. It sucks, and it's not fair, and the only thing you could do is learn to roll with the punches."

Dean could do that when he and Sam were getting along. But it had been getting harder to do as the months and years rolled by with one shit-fest after another that added up to too much anger, and betrayals maybe too hard to forgive between him and Sam. "I think I forgot how to do that. Or maybe I'm just too tired."

"It'll pass." He held up a hand when Dean's eyes narrowed. "I don't mean grieving for Sam. You'll always grieve for a lost brother although, over time, it lessons, softens out, and you can focus more on the good times. But everything changes, Dean. And I smell a sea change ahead for you. For all of us. I don't think it's an accident that we've all found each other."

Dean had no fucking idea what Methos was talking about. "You are so full of shit."

Methos snickered. "More coffee?" He held out the pot towards Dean, and Dean held out his cup. Once Methos filled it, his phone rang. "What do you want?" he snapped into the phone.

Dean guessed it was the asswipe, Duncan McIdiot, and he took his coffee into the bathroom to give Methos some privacy.

*****

Dean had sort of hoped Methos would stay for the research and maybe even the hunt, but he left after the call, muttering about idiots, and telling Dean he'd see him later.

The door shut behind him, leaving Dean in the still transformed suite, something that surprised Dean because he'd been sure as soon as Crowley and Methos left it would become the same dingy hotel room it had been before they showed up.

He put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and got out Sam's laptop. Time to start researching, and if the fact that this was Sam's job made his heart clench and his throat feel tight, Dean ignored that and just pressed on. Thankfully it only took him about twenty minutes to find the hunt. Two people were dead by mysterious means and, ten minutes after that, Dean was out the door heading for the crime scene.

*****

Ten hours later he'd nailed the fucker. Granted, he was a little scratched up, but he was still walking so Dean counted it as a win. The spirit had been half harpy or something, and it had caught Dean with a lucky swipe of talons around his stomach and side just as Dean had been standing over her opened grave. After that, though, Dean had happily sent it to kingdom come with a judicious application of lighter fluid and a well-thrown match.

He'd checked out the scratch in the car and it hadn't looked bad; he didn't even think it needed stitches. That was a good thing, because while Dean had put stitches in himself before, it sucked, and there was no way he could do his side.

As he got out of the car, he felt dizzy and had to hold onto the roof of the impala to keep from pitching to the ground. Guess he should have had supper first, he thought to himself. Then, "mother fucker," as the scratch began to burn like crazy.

"Fucking awesome," he said, as he staggered to his hotel room, taking several tries to get the key in the hole. He was surprised it was still all done up a la Crowley, but he wasn't going to complain. He'd take a shower, put some antiseptic shit on this cut and then crawl into that obscenely wonderful bed. The only thing it was missing was a vibrate setting.

He found himself unexpectedly on his knees. Dean didn't even remember falling. His stomach and side felt like they were on fire. He yanked his shirt up and saw that the cuts were puffy and virulently red, and the blood leaking out of the wound was boiling. "Yeah," he said, "that's not good." He tried to think of anything he'd ever read or heard of that mentioned boiling blood, but his brain was fighting a losing battle between Dean being completely freaked that his blood was fucking boiling as it left his body and leaving blistering burn trails as it dripped down his skin, and the fact that he wasn't seeing very well, or moving very well for that matter.

The pain was growing, the heat intensifying, moving away from the wound in all directions as more and more of him felt like he was on fire, like he wouldn't have been surprised to see actual flames licking his skin.

He let out a cry of pain, now flat on the floor, his fingers gripping at the thick carpet, unable to move, unable to do anything but feel himself burn up from the inside out, until it hit his heart and his lungs and the pain exploded in his chest as he lost the ability to breathe, and then he knew he was going to die right here and right now, and all he could do was croak out his brother's name, and then he was gone. 

*****

Dean woke up in bed. He blinked a couple of times then sat up straight pawing at his clothes until he got his stomach and side free from material. Nothing. There was nothing there, not even a scar. 

Then he got a good look at the clothes he was wearing. They sure as hell weren't the clothes he was wearing yesterday. He'd been wearing black jeans, a grey t-shirt, and his leather jacket. Right now, he was wearing a pair of blue jeans, a very specific pair that had been destroyed past the point of recovery when he and Sam had gone on a hunt a while ago. The last hunt Castiel had been with them.

All his clothes, in fact, everything he was currently wearing, had been ruined, including him, but Castiel had put him and Sam back together again with some angel mumbo-jumbo and a little chanting. 

Glancing around the hotel room, Dean saw that he was still in Crowley's super suite. He got cautiously out of bed and moved to the living room where there was a huge bloody stain on the floor. He approached the stain cautiously and noticed that part of the carpet was singed.

Dean touched his stomach again, remembering very clearly the blood boiling out of his body leaving charred strips on his flesh as it dripped down his skin. "What the fuck?" He squatted and touched the blood. It was dry for the most part, although still tacky where it had pooled. "Seriously. What the fuck?"

The answer came to him as quickly as he'd mouthed the question. Crowley. It had to have been Crowley, but why hadn't they hung around? It seemed weird that the demon would have just healed him and then put him to bed. Let alone why he would be wearing old clothes he didn't even own anymore. How would Crowley have even known about these clothes?

He sat on the rug, next to the blood stain and thought about last night. He'd really thought he was dying, that when he slipped away that he wouldn't be waking up again. His last thought had been for Sam, but his last emotion had been largely relief. Relief that it was over. That he'd get to see Sam again. Or hopefully see Sam. He hadn't forgotten that during their last trip to heaven most of Sam's best memories had been the times in his life when he'd run from Dean and his dad.

Dean was tempted to go to Crowley's home and punch him for bringing him back, even if he knew his fist would be the only thing hurt. But it had probably been Methos who had asked Crowley to do it, and Dean didn't want to punch Methos. How had the man done it? How many people had he lost over the last 5000 years and stayed sane? Obviously the answer was that he wasn't sane, not completely.

"Fuck," he said. He picked at his pants, wondering how that had happened, but then he let it go. It didn't really matter and he had really liked these jeans and been sad to see them go. Dean touched his stomach again, yesterday's memories still raw even if his skin wasn't, but then he got up and moved to the refrigerator to make himself breakfast out of Crowley's ridiculously stocked kitchen.

*****

"Everything okay with Dean?" Methos asked.

Crowley was using the remote to flip through every channel the world had to offer and still finding nothing to watch. "What?"

"Dean? Is he okay?"

Crowley switched to another channel and there was Dean, eating breakfast. "He's eating breakfast. Happy?" Actually, Crowley was a little put out with himself that he felt relieved at the sight. There'd been a few minutes last night when he'd jerked out of a sound sleep, certain that things hadn't been okay at all. There'd been this cold feeling in his gut, and Crowley had known Dean was dead. It had felt wrong to him on a visceral level, despite how hard he told himself, and anyone else that would listen, that the world would be a better place with all the Winchesters out of it. 

He'd almost woken Methos up, but then whatever disconcerting ripple of fate that had awakened him settled back down. Just as sure as he'd been that Dean was dead only seconds before, he had been just as sure, only seconds later, that Dean was fine. Or at least Crowley had been as sure of it as he could be without peeking, and he didn't feel like peeking. Dean was probably fucking something if he was holding true to form. If he wasn't drinking, then his fallback position would be sex.

"You all right?" Methos asked, touching Crowley's arm with his hand. "You're a million miles away."

Crowley scowled. "I was thinking about Dean Winchester," he said with a shudder.

Methos rolled his eyes. "Sorry, but I still don't believe you don't like him." He sat down next to Crowley, leaning into him.

"About as much as you like your Scottish idiot," Crowley said, leaning back.

"Well," Methos said with a considering look, "I used to think of him as one of my best friends."

"'Used' being the operative word in that sentence," Crowley pointed out. "And do you know how many times he's tried to kill me?"

"If he tries it again, I'll have words with him," Methos promised.

"Words?"

"Strong words," Methos assured him, his hands wandering now until they were over Crowley's crotch, his fingers finding the shape of him through his clothing.

"What type of words?" Crowley whispered, letting out a moan, nibbling at Methos' jaw. "And can I listen when you do it?"

"Very strong words," Methos said, kissing Crowley and bearing him down on the couch, "and yes, you can listen."

Crowley suddenly didn't care about Dean Winchester at all, and he snapped them, naked, into the bedroom.

Methos let out a startled laugh.

"Oh, sorry," Crowley said, as insincerely as possible. "Did you have plans?"

"Nothing that can't wait," Methos said, pulling him close. "And just to show you my sincerity, are there any particular words you'd like to hear now?"

"Yes," Crowley growled. "But let me say them. Words like hands and knees arse high, and right now."

Eyes sparkling with amusement and arousal, Methos assumed the position, his head on a pillow, elbows only used for balance, ass high up, taunting Crowley with its ripeness. He spanked Methos on one cheek and then the other.

"Ooh," Methos said, flexing his ass cheeks. "More of that, please."

Crowley complied, using the flat of his hand, the better to feel the heat of Methos' skin as it grew warm and then hot from the spanks Crowley gave him. He paused every now and then to listen to Methos gasp for breath, each breath ending on a light groan that went right to Crowley's cock.

He didn't feel like making Methos bleed by using a flogger or whip, although it was delightful to know he could, that Methos would egg him on. Right now he just wanted Methos' arse to burn so when Crowley got inside of him he'd feel all that heated skin against his. 

Not stopping the spanking, Crowley blew on Methos' hole and watched the furl spasm in response. Crowley licked him, and then nibbled him around his entrance.

Methos let out a throaty cry, pushing his ass against Crowley's face, and Crowley was happy to comply, licking him again, using his right hand to keep his right cheek pushed out of his way, and his left hand still bringing down stinging slaps to his left cheek. Crowley was the master of multitasking.

He pushed inside of Methos with his right thumb, opening Methos up enough to get his tongue pushed inside. His cock felt harder with every groan Methos let out, and it just made him hungrier for Methos, for the man, for his skin, for even this part of him where the smell and taste of him was all wonderful sorts of dark.

"Just fuck me," Methos gasped, trying to keep his balance as he used one hand to pull at his own cock.

"Hands off," Crowley barked. "I'm still punishing you."

"For what?" Methos asked breathily.

"I'll think of something," Crowley promised.

"Maybe next time we can roleplay," Methos said, laughing a little. "You can be Snape and I can be Harry Potter."

"Really? That's where you want to go with this?" Crowley pulled back enough so he could spank all of Methos' ass. "Now at least I know what I’m punishing you for." Although the idea had merit. Snape had to have thought about fucking the little tyrant, if just to shut him up.

Methos was really laughing now. "Ha! I've got you thinking about it, don't I? And you can even polyjuice us!"

Annoyed that Methos was able to talk and laugh, Crowley pushed both thumbs inside of Methos, glad to hear a deep groan of pleasure out of the man, and even happier that the chatter had stopped. He wasn't happy that the heat was fading, so he made the air do his bidding, and it snapped against Methos' ass, shining him up again, as he continued to stretch him with both thumbs and his tongue and teeth, working his index fingers in next to his thumb. 

Methos wasn't saying anything now, just laboring to breathe, his body writhing under Crowley's ministrations, and Crowley was loving it. "Do you want more, my love?"

"Yes, anything!" Methos stammered out.

He moved the air around to lightly spank Methos' cock as Crowley lined himself up, pushing his cock in alongside his fingers, feeling the push against Methos' hole. Methos really groaned, but Crowley trusted the man would say if it was too much.

He pushed in further until he bottomed out, and then admired the look of Methos' ass being full of his cock and his fingers. If he was willing to share, which he wasn't, he'd love to see another cock right alongside of his. Although there was no reason he couldn't give himself two cocks. Another time. They had all the time in the world to do anything they wanted. With that thought, he started pounding into Methos, although he had to pull one hand free to hold onto Methos' hips. 

Methos' body was tightening under his, a sure sign that he was going to come soon, and Crowley wouldn't be far behind. He pulled his other hand free to wrap around Methos' chest, to pull him up against him, resting on Crowley's thighs, so he could watch Methos come as he was still being caressed by the very molecules of the air, and watch he did as Methos let out a keen as his cock jetted out his orgasm, making him squeeze Crowley's cock until he let out his own howl and came inside Methos' body.

They both hung in the air for a moment and then, like marionettes with their stings cut, they collapsed on the bed, still coupled together. Deeply, deeply satisfied, Crowley cleaned them with a thought, and wrapping Methos up tightly in his arms, drifted off to sleep.

*****


	7. Chapter 7

*****

Dean hated to leave the hotel, but the hunt was done, and Bobby had called him with another one in New Mexico. He packed up, hoped the blood stain on the floor would vanish with the fancy rug, and closed the door behind him, leaving the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. That should give Crowley a little time to snap his fingers before a maid walked in and saw a room that totally shouldn't exist. 

He sighed a little, not looking forward to whatever shithole he'd end up in tonight. It's not like he could ask Crowley to constantly supply him with penthouse suites during every hunt. Besides, Crowley had done that for him and Methos, not Dean.

As he got in his car and started to drive south, his mind strayed to Methos. And Crowley. And Death. Jesus. He would have bet money that his life could not have gotten any stranger than Castiel and an apocalypse, but he'd have lost every penny.

He abruptly wondered what Castiel was doing so, just for fun, yelled out his name. "Castiel?" He waited a few seconds. "Cas?"

"I cannot stay for long," Castiel said, suddenly in the front seat.

Only through tremendous control did Dean manage not to drive off the road. He wanted to yell at the angel for his precipitous appearance, but Dean had been the one to call him. "Hey, long time no see," Dean said, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder. Castiel looked tired, his lips were heavily chapped, and he had large circles under his eyes. Even his trench coat looked like it could stand a visit to a dry cleaner.

"It has been too long," Castiel said, turning slightly in the passenger seat, the better to stare at Dean. "I am sorry about Sam."

Dean swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Have you seen him?"

"I have not seen him personally, but I know he is up with us, and that he is happy. It was good of you to release him."

Dean shrugged, unwilling to admit how much he hadn't wanted to let Sam go, and said, "He's been all but dead for a long time."

"Still. It was a courageous thing to do. I have no doubt that you wished to come up with a plan to keep him with you longer. You are very capable in that regard; I think the phrase is: thinking outside the box."

"And look how good that all turned out."

"Do not denigrate yourself, Dean. You stopped an apocalypse. You recaptured Lucifer. You saved the human race."

"Hundreds of thousands of people died. Sam died. Jo and Ellen died."

"There are always casualties of war. Compared to six billion people, considering that both heaven and hell felt the destruction of the entire human race an acceptable loss, the number of dead was minimal. All your friends were fighting on the front line, so it stands to reason that the possibility of death was high. Despite their death, each in their own way assisted in stopping the apocalypse. Do not begrudge their sacrifice. It belittles them."

Dean wondered if this was the year for all-powerful creatures to teach him how to be a better person. He'd gotten more reasonable advice in the past month than he had his whole life. "How about my dad?" he asked, sort of out of the blue, or maybe because he'd never gotten good advice from his dad about anything but hunting. "Is he happy?"

"Everyone is happy in heaven, Dean," Castiel said pedantically.

"Yeah, that's a crock of shit," Dean argued. "I wasn't. You weren't, and unless I miss my guess, you're still not happy." 

Castiel sighed. "Things continue to be difficult. Despite my promotion, the other arch-angels are not happy with how things transpired. They blame me for Michael's incarceration, and Raphael is trying to gain sufficient power to unseat me."

"Can he do that?" Dean asked sharply. He'd really hoped they'd never have to deal with that fucker again.

"There is much I did not know about heaven and its powers before I became what I am now. It is much more political than I could have imagined. There are powerful artifacts and talk of the power of souls, and I find it disconcerting."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I do not know. I must amass power but I do not have the skillset required. I may need assistance."

"Well, you know I have your back, buddy. Anything you need." Dean hoped he didn't regret that promise. But he owed Castiel. Castiel had given up everything for him, and yes, it had worked out okay for the angel, but for a long time, it hadn't seemed like it would. Castiel had lost everything for a while there, and it hadn't stopped him.

A small smile crossed Castiel's lips at Dean's pledge, but then he frowned and looked up at the sky. "I must return." And then he was gone.

"Well, damn," Dean said, glancing skyward, as if there'd be something to see to explain Castiel's sudden disappearance. "Hang in there," he said softly, hoping things worked out for Castiel, uneasy that they wouldn't, and swamped with sheer exhaustion at the thought of dealing with Raphael in any shape or form.

He winced at the thought of Michael. He had been a total jerk, but he didn't deserve to be stuck in a hole with Lucifer. On the other hand, he thought, struck by the idea, maybe he likes it. Maybe they'd been needing to sit down and talk for a million years and now they'd have to. What else were they going to do stuck in a cage together? It would be awesome if they actually hammered some shit out. Snickering, Dean put in a cassette tape, turned the volume up high, and headed to New Mexico.

*****

Joe let out a long breathy gust of air as he watched Mac pace the floor of the bar. The customers were long-gone and Joe had flipped off the OPEN sign and locked the door. 

Mac continued to pace. 

He'd been pacing for hours; several customers had been giving him the side-eye during the course of the evening, and Joe had almost kicked his ass out the door.

This whole thing would really be getting Joe down, except every time he tried to get depressed he'd see his legs, and remember that he had real legs again, that he wouldn't have to take off his prosthetics when he went home, and rub cream on his stumps, and get pissed off because he'd gotten in bed before shutting off the overhead lights, and then wake up because pains were shooting down his absent limbs, impossible to soothe.

He had his legs again. And, despite Mac falling down the crazy rabbit hole about it, Joe was having fun watching Methos be so gone over someone, as much and more than he'd been for Alexa. It had also been interesting to see the old man so angry because Methos was usually an even-tempered guy and someone who looked for a peaceable, and expedient, solution. 

But Methos had been angry at Mac. Beyond angry. It had thrown Mac and was at least partly the cause of the pacing. Their relationship had always been skewed, at least in Joe's mind, with Mac just assuming he was the dominant friend, more powerful, a better strategist, and if it came down to it, a better fighter than Methos.

That punch had been a beauty, as had been the fire in Methos' eyes. Joe loved Mac like his own family, but he'd needed that punch. The real question was whether it had knocked any sense into the man.

Duncan skidded back up to the bar. "He punched me!"

So far the answer to that was no. Joe was briefly sorry he wasn't immortal because he might be dead before this little feud burned itself out. "You deserved it."

"Death? That man canna be death. There is no such person as death."

"You saw what he did to your sword," Joe said simply. "I'm not much for magic and voodoo but even I could see he was something different. He appeared and disappeared right in front of our eyes."

Mac ground his teeth for a minute, then looked up.

"Don't even think about it," Joe said. "If you're going to do anything idiotic enough as to actually call someone like that to you, then go find a dark alley. That is not the kind of person you want to mess with, and especially not in my damn bar." 

Deflating, Mac sat at the bar, taking the beer Joe poured for him. "I dinna understand any of this."

"I get it," Joe told him. "Methos has become part of a different world that contains things I'm sure as hell uncomfortable with, and I'm man enough to admit that it was my own damn fault. He'd never have even met him if I hadn't made a deal."

Mac's eyes lit up, "Maybe we can make another deal and undo it."

Joe's heart lurched at the thought. "No!" He was not about to give up his legs because Mac didn't like Methos' new boyfriend. Not to mention that Methos would kill them both. Painfully.

"If it all got set back to where it started, before you made the deal, no one would even know. Not you, not me, not Methos," Mac said, as if it was just that easy.

"And what are you planning to deal with?" Joe snapped. "Your soul? Besides Crowley would know as soon as you tried to make a deal and he'd tear you apart. That little love affair goes both ways."

Mac deflated once more. "I just want my friend back."

Joe studied Mac. "Are you jealous?"

Mac's eyebrows rose. "Of what?"

"That Methos has someone who loves him? That Methos loves someone else? That Methos has someone to go to when you piss him off? Any or all of that? That Methos isn't in love with you?" Joe winced. "Okay, that's a stretch."

"I’m not in love with Methos," Mac said, sounding scandalized. 

Joe laughed out loud, moving to grab another beer for himself.

"I'm not," protested Mac.

"I said it was a stretch," Joe told him, his attention back on Mac, "but you sure are focusing on that particular point."

"I love women," Mac said firmly.

"So you've never been with a man? Ever?" Joe asked incredulously. "In over four hundred years, you were never curious?"

"Of course I was curious, but there are always women," Mac defended himself. "I've shared a woman with another man, but that's all. Just because you're curious, it doesn't mean you should satisfy your curiosity."

"You really are just as much of a prude as the old man has always accused you of," Joe said in amazement.

"Have you been with a man?" Mac demanded.

"You betcha," Joe said easily.

Mac reared back as if Joe had just admitted he was a demon, too.

"Oh, Mac," Joe said, laughing again, "you really are a mess, aren't you? It's time to stop living in the past and loosen up a bit."

"I value my morals and convictions," Mac snapped back. "I'm proud of who I am and what I believe."

"Hmmm," Joe said.

Mac glared at Joe. 

"Listen," Joe said. "Methos is in love with this guy, and he's not going to give him up for you. So you need to figure out what's more important. The friendship you have with Methos, or your morals and convictions. Because I don't think you can have both, not any more. He won't sit around and let you sabotage this relationship."

Mac scowled, finishing off his beer in several swallows, before putting it down a little harder than necessary.

"Or," Joe continued, "you can use this as an opportunity to get that stick out of your ass, and maybe find that there is something brand new under the sun and embrace it. You don't have to like this guy, but you have to accept him. If you don't, you'll lose Methos. For real this time."

"And this other man? The one Methos calls death? He is dangerous. I need to learn more about him so I can challenge him if necessary."

Joe decided the next time he saw Methos he was going to ask him to just keep the death guy away. Mac was way over his head on this one.

*****

Dean pulled into the first motel he found in New Mexico that didn't look like a complete shithole. He glared at the sign for the Buckaroo Motel, the t-e-l letters dark, the neon gone out. The price was right, at least, only twenty bucks a night for a single.

It was late, but he could see someone in the office. Glancing around before getting out of the car, he tried to see some sort of fast food place that might be open. He made his way into the office; the person manning the desk was an old fat guy, sweat stains under his armpits the size of a pizza and he stank of body odor.

"Any place to eat around here?" Dean asked.

"About twenty miles down the road if you want something now," the guy said.

Dean would bet money the guy had a dozen Hostess cupcakes in a cabinet somewhere. He was tempted to go get one of his guns and just hold the place up. Tempted, but not completely crazy yet. He sighed. "How about breakfast?"

"Across the street. Six am."

Dean guessed he could wait. It wasn't like he was going to starve to death overnight, and he wasn't in the mood to drive another twenty-five miles especially when he didn't know if there'd be a motel nearby once he got there. Maybe if he'd been with Sam they would have done it, but there was no one to relieve him on the driving anymore. He signed in, got his key, and went to drive his car closer to his room. 

When he opened the motel room door, he stopped, arrested by the smell of something delicious. His first thought was that he'd been given an occupied room, and they'd just finished dinner and would probably not appreciate Dean barging in. "Hello?"

Nothing. He pushed open the door the rest of the way and flipped on the light. It didn't look like anyone else was staying there. The bed was made, and all the usual motel shit was in its place. What was different, though, was the dinner sitting on the table. Mexican. Tacos, a burrito, and chips and salsa, along with a large soda. Just sitting there. Smelling fucking fantastic.

Dean put his bag down and shut the door behind him, locked it, and stared at the food. His stomach was gurgling at the sight and smell. Approaching it, he put his hand out and could feel the heat coming from the food. The cheese was melting on the tacos, and the lettuce and tomatoes were fresh, not a wilted leaf in sight. 

"Crowley?" he asked hesitantly, finding it difficult to believe the demon would have cared enough to provide dinner. Methos maybe, but if this was from Methos, he would have left a note. Dean lifted the plate to see if there was a note, but there wasn't anything there.

"It's just dinner, Dean," Death said. "No need to be so suspicious."

"Fuck," Dean said, hand over his heart. "You fucking gave me a heart attack."

Death just shot him a look. "Eat."

As opposed to the last time Death offered to provide him food, dead bodies all around, Dean was more willing this time, and he sat at the table and grabbed a chip, dipping it in salsa before cramming it in his mouth. "Thanks," he garbled out through a mouth full of food. "You," he spoke again, no less clearly, pointing at the other end of the table. He swallowed. "Aren't you hungry?"

A small smile graced Death's face and with a wave of his hand, another plate appeared in front of him. "Most people aren't that comfortable eating with Death." His eyes lit up at the feast in front of him, a plate full of his own tacos and burritos.

"Just use your own bowl of salsa and we're good," Dean said, so delighted to be eating that he was okay with his table mate. Not that Death was bad company, and it sure beat eating alone. Dean knew he wouldn't have thought that a few months ago, but everything in his life had gone nuts, so why not this? Besides, Death had brought him awesome Mexican food. "Where did this come from?"

"A place about sixty miles north of here."

"Do you know every fast food place in this country?" Dean asked, half kidding.

"Yes."

Dean couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. "Do you even need to eat?"

"No," Death said. "But I do like to eat."

"Me, too," Dean said, taking a bite of his burrito. "Jesus, this is good."

They both ate somewhat companionably, or as companionably as Dean could eat with Death. There was something very satisfying eating a meal with someone who was enjoying it as much as Dean did. Sam always wanted the healthy shit and would probably be hassling Dean for eating junk food. 

Thinking of Sam made his appetite dim a little, and he put the burrito down and took a sip of his soda. "Does he…" Dean didn't know how to ask his question.

"I can only assume you wish to ask something about Sam," Death observed, finishing off one of his tacos and following that with a long swallow of his own soda.

Dean's throat felt tight and he coughed a little. "Does he even miss me?" he finally blurted out. "It's just that the last time he was in heaven, all the things he cared about, the places he went, they were times he…they were bad times for me. Never mind, it's stupid." Angry at himself, he stood and walked to the window, staring out. His heart ached, missing Sam, awash with loneliness, wanting something so badly he yearned for it, but unable to put what that was into words.

"Do not doubt that your brother loves you," Death said. "Do not doubt that he misses you. When you reviewed his memories of heaven before, you were together. He had no need to relive his favorite memories of you."

Dean nodded, running a hand down his face, wondering if he'd ever feel whole again. If he ever had felt whole. "Is he happy?" Dean asked, his voice cracking, his eyes stinging. And what answer did Dean even want? That Sam was happy without Dean? That Sam wasn't happy without Dean? Jesus, he was so needy.

"He is. He, like you, has much unhappiness to shed."

"Why do you even care?" Dean said, spinning around, locking eyes with Death. 

"I don't care about Sam, other than he was your brother. As I said before, Dean, people don’t really matter. They come and go so quickly. All this drama for nothing. Very little really changes."

"So why the dinner? Why the rescue from the asshole with the sword? Why care about Sam because he's my brother? You said I was completely insignificant when we first met. What changed?"

Death put his napkin on the table and leaned back. "I said very little really changes, but you change things."

Dean's eyebrows went up. "Me?"

Death sighed. "Please don't be obtuse."

"All I did was try to save my brother. All I did was try not to die. Everything else was an accident. You saw what happened when I tried to do your job for a day. I killed that nurse. I killed her future, her kids. I fucked up. That's what I do when I try."

"She's alive, Dean."

Dean stared at Death. "What?"

"I fixed that. I knew you would never forgive yourself for it."

Dean's heart leaped in his chest. "She's not dead?"

"Not dead."

"So she gets to be married and have her kids and grandkids?"

"Yes," Death said, going for his burrito.

"Were you going to tell me?" Dean demanded, even as the relief coursed through him. She wasn't dead. She wasn't just a body lying on a bed in the emergency room, or a moldering corpse.

"As soon as you asked."

"Why make me wait? Not that this isn't fantastic news, because it is, but why make me wait?" Dean couldn't keep a grin off his face. Fucking fantastic news!

Death put his burrito back down on his plate and actually looked uncomfortable. "I don't usually engage in acts of sentiment. Yet another way you have changed the world. I have been alive for as long as there has been life and my behavior has rarely changed."

Dean gaped at Death, stared at his ugly-captivating face, and felt like hugging the man. Death had fixed one of Dean's worst memories, and he'd done it just for him. "Thanks," Dean croaked out. "Really. That was…I hated that I did that. I hated that I fucked that up so badly."

"I know," Death said kindly. "Finish your dinner."

Dean couldn't stop grinning, still riding the waves of relief. "We need more chips."

*****

Methos stretched, imagining he could still feel the aches and pains of the great sex they'd had, even as he knew his body had already healed. He could definitely still feel Crowley's hands and mouth and fingers and cock, the sense memory of that powerfully strong. He put out his hands, expecting Crowley to still be lying next to him, but the bed was empty. 

For a moment, he considered drifting back off to sleep, but if Crowley was up, he might be doing something interesting, and Methos was too curious not to see what that might be. He got out of bed and slipped into some sensuously soft sleep pants and padded out to find his lover. "Crowley?"

"In here," Crowley called back. "If you'd waited five minutes, I would have brought you breakfast in bed."

Methos needed to send Joe a thank you card for getting drunk and making a deal. He already couldn't imagine his life without Crowley, without his body and power, and humor, and culinary skills, and his loving heart. Something he would not mention to Crowley as it might end with Methos on the couch. Grinning at the thought, knowing he could seduce his way back into his demon's bed, Methos entered the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Crowley, lacing his fingers over the demon's stomach. "Hello, gorgeous."

"Hello yourself," Crowley said with a pleased smile. 

"This smells delicious," Methos said, peering over Crowley's shoulder at the slices of French toast. "Hmm."

"One of my specialties," Crowley said proudly.

"Hmm," Methos said again, kissing his cheek. "Don't ever do anything stupid and get killed, okay?"

"Double for you."

Methos would try very hard, now that he had something so remarkable to live for. "What's up with Dean?"

Crowley shot him a look, even as he sifted some sugar onto the French toast. "Why do you persist in believing that I care? He's on a hunt somewhere. Good riddance."

Methos nipped at his earlobe. "Show me."

Sighing, as if there was nothing more aggravating in the world than Methos, except possibly Dean Winchester, Crowley waved at the television set until the Dean Winchester station appeared.

Crowley went still, resulting in an extra dollop of sugar landing on the last slice of French toast. "Are you seeing that?"

Methos was seeing that. Dean and Death were having dinner together. Mexican. "Are they on a date?" He giggled.

Crowley put down the sugar sifter and stared at Methos. "Did you just giggle?"

"I think I did." Methos giggled again. "Are they on a date?" he asked again. 

"They're in a motel. It's a piece of shit so it must be Dean's motel room. Death must have stopped by." He snickered. 

"With dinner?" Methos asked, now laughing, a wide grin on his face. "Really?"

"Only Dean Winchester," Crowley said. "Can we shut this off? He's fine. Clearly. Nothing can hurt him if Death is around. Except Death, but seeing as he brought Dean dinner, somehow I don't see that as a problem."

"Maybe Dean bought dinner for Death," Methos pointed out.

"All the more reason for Death not to kill him," Crowley countered. "Can we eat?" Despite wanting to move on to eating his delicious breakfast, Crowley snickered again. "It's sort of sweet."

That was when Death looked right at them.

"And shutting that off right now," Crowley said with a snap of his fingers. The blank television set hulked in the corner of the room. With another snap of his fingers, the television set was replaced by a lovely fountain complete with horses and gods.

"Tell me that isn't the actual Trevi Fountain," Methos said. The living room was now quite a bit larger to accommodate the huge fountain.

Crowley just sniffed. "It's better." 

"Everything you do is better," Methos said happily. "Was he really looking at us?" That was a bit disconcerting, even if Methos couldn't stop grinning.

"Yes, and let's not talk about it," Crowley said. He caught Methos' eyes and grinned back. 

"We should totally have them over for Mexican one night," Methos said with a laugh. "I make a mean enchilada."

"Bite your tongue," Crowley said.

"Bite it for me," Methos challenged him.

Breakfast was messy, but very delicious.

*****


	8. Chapter 8

*****  
Later, after Death had left from one second to the next, Dean lay in bed, full, bemused, and lonely as hell. Weird to think Death had been good, weird, but good company. Right at that moment, Death would be welcome, in more way than one, because the life stretching out ahead of Dean felt endless. Night after night of this, being alone, researching alone, hunting alone, more often than not eating alone. 

Dean wasn’t built to be alone. And maybe it was needy, and maybe it was co-dependency, and maybe it was some other psychological bullshit, but the bottom line was Dean didn’t want to be alone. 

He put his hand on his chest until he could feel the beat of his heart, remembering how it felt when Death had shown him his soul. Even though he had experienced it, and Death had no reason to lie, Dean found it hard to believe that that had been him, his soul. It had been the most beautiful thing he’d ever felt. Strong and shining, and full of every good thing, and it had been in him, despite the life he’d lived, the things he’d done, while still alive and then in hell. 

Famine had taunted him about his soul, saying it was almost nonexistent, and it had been why Dean had stopped caring. Dean shook his head at that; he should have known famine was feeding him a line, because Dean never stopped caring. He just stopped being able to handle all the negative crap that came with caring. It had taken him over, torn his heart apart, made him doubt every interaction with Sam and Castiel. He had lost the ability to know false from true, and blamed himself for everything.

And yet, somehow, his soul had survived. Not just intact, but…Dean didn’t have the words. Whatever else, it was intact enough to impress Death, and it sure has hell had impressed Dean. He wished he could feel it now, let it surround him, hold him, while he lay in bed. Maybe it would make him feel less alone if he could have that.

He closed his eyes, tried to think back to whatever Death had done, how it had felt to feel it explode inside and outside of him like the best Fourth of July fireworks. Not even sure it was something he could do, but having no intention of calling Death to teach him, Dean stubbornly dug deep, wishing with all his heart that his soul make its presence known, ignoring both his deep belief that he couldn’t do it and was being an idiot, and the fact he was acting like a thirteen-year-old girl believing in unicorns with rainbows shooting out of their asses. 

And just when he was thought about giving up, he refused, digging down with every inch of the Winchester stubbornness, until he was sweating, and his muscles felt tight.

“Dean,” Death said.

Dean let out an involuntary yelp, startled out of his preoccupation with summoning his soul. “Jesus,” he gasped. “What?”

“You should not summon your soul that way,” Death said. “All you are doing is advertising your presence to every kind of creature who feeds on souls. There are many heading this way.”

That got Dean out of bed and moving to the window. It was dark outside, only the feeble glow of the old neon lights breaking the blackness. “What are you talking about?” But then he saw it, this sickly olive green, like pus, on the horizon. Without intending to, he took a quick step back, recoiling, knowing it was bad, beyond bad, whatever it was. “Fuck,” Dean said. “What the hell is that? How do I stop it?” 

“I will stop it,” Death said. “And I will teach you the correct way to see your soul, but it will take time and patience, something which is not your strong suit.” His voice had a touch of dry humor.

For his soul, or for whatever that thing was that Death said was his soul, Dean would be patient. “I’ll do it.”

Death stared at him for what felt like a long time. “Yes, I believe you will.”

The pus colored light was growing stronger, and Dean could feel it like a sickness in his gut. “Anytime,” he said. “Really, now would be good.”

With a hint of a smile on his thin lips, Death turned to the window, allowing Dean time to get out of his way, and held out his hand. Even on this side of Death’s hand, Dean could feel the immense power pouring forth, shooting out towards the diseased entities heading Dean’s way. He could see when they collided, and how the sickly yellow vanished under the power of Death. In a matter of seconds, the sky was black once more, and Death was putting his hand down.

“Wow,” Dean said, feeling out of breath. “That was awesome.” He’d never felt so comforted by the dark before, the normal darkness of night. “What was that anyway?” he asked, sincerely hoping he’d never deal with it again.

“Inferi, dybbuck, nachzehrer, stigroi,” Death listed off. “Such is the lure of your soul, and you were laying it out like an all-you-can-eat buffet.” 

“How was I doing that?” Dean protested. “I couldn’t even feel it.” He made a note to write those names down, as he’d never heard of any of them except inferi.

“You would have shortly, but it would have been the last time,” Death said sternly. “Do not do it again.”

Dean put his hands up in a ‘trust-me’ gesture. “I won’t. Thanks, by the way.”

Death stared at him, head cocked to the side, as if he were trying to read Dean in a new language. Dean shifted uncomfortably, not wanting Death to know why he’d been trying to feel his soul, how lonely he’d been.

“Lie down,” Death finally said.

Dean’s eyes widened, his heart suddenly pounding. “What?”

Death rolled his eyes. “Dean.”

Not a sexual being, right. Dean glanced at the bed, not looking forward to trying and failing to fall to sleep. But guessing that Death wouldn’t leave it alone, Dean sat on the bed. He stared up at Death defiantly. “Now what? Are you going to sing me a lullaby and tuck me in?”

“Something better,” Death said with a small smile. “Lie down.”

Dean let out a long sigh, but did lie down, feeling unpleasantly vulnerable. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Experience my soul, Dean Winchester,” Death said, and touched Dean’s forehead. Half expecting to get sent to the past a la Castiel, he was unprepared for the glory that unfolded within him, the experience of his own soul a mere speck of phoenix song compared to the symphony, the joyful celebration that seeped into every cell of his body. “Sleep.”

Slipping into a slipstream of ineffable beauty and comfort and safety, Dean slept. 

And then Dean dreamt.

*****  
“Dean!”

Dean spun around to see Sam running toward him, a huge dorkish smile on his face. He barely got his arms up in time to grab Sam when he slammed into him, wrapping around Dean, lifting him up to spin him in a circle.

“Bitch,” Dean yelled. “Stop treating me like a princess!”

It took a while but Sam put him down. “God, it’s great to see you!” Sam said, still smiling. “Are you really here?”

“I guess that depends on where here is,” Dean said, glancing around. “Are we in heaven?” And was it real? Had Death sent him here, or was he dreaming this? It sure felt real. And Sam looked real, all seven gargantuan feet of him. He’d forgotten how big Sam was; it was like Dean had been shrinking over the last year.

“Yeah,” Sam enthused. “I miss you.”

Dean had to clear his throat before saying, “I miss you, too,” and added more firmly, “and that’s enough of that.”

They stared at each other for what felt like an endless moment, where orchestral music would be playing if they were in a movie, and Dean could feel his face redden even as he couldn’t stop looking. Sam looked so good. Healthy, happy. Jesus.

“Thanks,” Sam finally said, breaking the awkward silence. “Really, thanks.”

“For what?”

“For letting me die.”

Dean had a hard time swallowing past the damn boulder in his throat. “Don’t thank me for that.”

Someone distinctly female coughed a little in an attention gathering way, and Dean looked behind Sam to see Jess. She looked great, too. “Hey, Jess,” Dean said. “You two all hooked up again?”

Sam reached back and grabbed her, slinging his arm around her. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Now Sam was staring at Jess with that goofy smile.

“Yeah,” Dean said nodding, feeling his own face stretched in a smile. “Yeah, she really is.” Jesus, Sam looked good. Like setting the clock back ten years good. Something let go inside of Dean, even as he sort of felt like crying. It made him miss Methos for some reason. Maybe because the last few times he’d really let loose and cried, Methos had been there offering his silent comfort.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, clasping Dean’s shoulder and squeezing.

“I’m okay,” Dean said.

“Have you been staying with Bobby?” Sam asked hopefully.

Dean snorted a little. “No.”

“Dean,” Sam said sternly. “I don’t think it’s good for you to be alone right now.”

“I’m not alone,” Dean said, thinking of all his babysitters. “I even saw Cas the other day.”

Sam frowned. “Something’s not right with him,” Sam cautioned. “He keeps talking about souls, like he needs a fix. It’s weird.”

“Yeah, I noticed. What’s that about?”

From Dean’s left, Ash joined them. “It’s the currency up here,” he said, as if he’d been a part of the conversation from the beginning.

“Still the information broker?” Dean asked him. Heaven clearly hadn’t snuffed his conspiracy theory brand of thinking.

“You know it,” Ash said. 

“And what does that mean exactly?” Dean asked. “The currency thing.”

“Castiel and Rafael don’t agree about how heaven should be run, so they’re fighting about it,” Ash said. “And souls make you stronger.”

“It’s not so much that,” Sam said, “as Castiel doesn’t want Rafael to rule, because he thinks he’ll try for another apocalypse.”

“He’s probably right,” Dean said. “You can’t even get away from politics up here, huh?”

“You mostly can,” Sam said. “And there are other benefits,” he added, smiling again at Jess.

“Good to see you, Dean,” Ash said, “hang loose.”

“You bet,” Dean said, watching as Ash walked away, still acting high as a kite. “They got pot up here?”

Sam snickered. “I think he smoked so much pot he’s permanently that way.”

“Where’s everyone else?”

“They’re around,” Sam said evasively. “I sort of told them I wanted to see you alone. But I can call for them if you want.”

“No, this is good, Sammy. We’ll save that for another day.” Assuming he had another day. He wasn’t dead, was he? He didn’t feel dead. “How’d you know I was coming, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, glancing at Jess. “I just knew. How are you here, anyway?”

“My life has been especially weird lately,” Dean told him.

Jess smiled at them both. “I’m going to leave you two to catch up.” She kissed Sam on the lips, kissed Dean on the cheek, and walked away.

“She is still smoking hot,” Dean told Sam.

Sam shoved Dean, but grinned. “Yeah, she is.” Sam started to walk, and Dean strode next to him, feeling as if they’d never been apart. “So how is your life weird?” Sam said.

Dean told him about Methos and Crowley, about that asshole McCloud and Death. The weirdness that was Death.

“Death?” Sam asked, eyebrows high.

Dean nodded.

“I always wondered if he was sweet on you,” Sam said.

“You did not!” Dean protested.

“He brought you fast food,” Sam pointed out.

Dean was tired of defending himself about this. Of course, Death had saved his ass again last night, and he did not just think Death and ass in the same sentence. Not a sexual being. “He likes my soul,” Dean found himself saying. Which was the truth.

“What?” Sam stuttered out.

“And his soul ain’t bad, either,” Dean said, suddenly enjoying the conversation. The look on Sam’s face was priceless. Besides, there was still a chance he was dreaming this.

Sam’s incredulous expression slid into his bitch face. “Nice one, Dean. I’m so sure.”

Dean snickered. “I’m serious. He laid a soul whammy on me, and either this is a really life-like dream, or his soul was awesome enough to send me to heaven.”

“Death’s soul,” Sam said as if waiting for the punchline.

“Fine, don’t believe me,” Dean said. Not that it really mattered. Well, it mattered a little, because Sam should always believe everything Dean said, but Dean got that him and Death soul-bonding was a stretch. “You seen dad?”

Sam grimaced. “Oh, yeah. I got a whole speech on all the wrong decisions I made.”

“Seems like heaven should be all the good stuff without any of the shitty stuff,” Dean said frowning.

“No kidding.” Then Sam smiled, “Mom’s great, though.”

Dean smiled back at him. “Yeah, she is.” He would look forward to seeing her sometime, but he was just glad to see Sam right now. 

“How long are you here for?” Sam asked.

“I don’t even know how I’m here. If I’m here.”

Sam frowned at him. “You’re here.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” It felt great just to be walking along with his brother at his side. “Did you see the fireworks? Crowley put your ashes in fireworks and shot them off.” He made a face. “Wait, is it really weird to talk about that?”

Sam threw his head back and laughed. “Maybe. I don’t know. Were they great?”

“A Crowley special,” Dean said.

“Don’t forget he’s a demon,” Sam cautioned him.

“Yeah, not really.”

“What’s that mean?” 

“Well, Death says he’s not a demon. That he has a soul. Crowley got all bitch-faced when he heard that.”

Sam came to a sudden stop. “What do you mean he’s not a demon?”

“I know, right?” Dean shrugged. “You have to admit, he’s not really like most demons.”

“I guess. He did help us with the apocalypse; and he fixed Bobby up,” Sam mused.

“Just don’t say any of that to him,” Dean said. “He likes to think he’s as bad as they come.”

“You sound like you like him,” Sam said, looking a little confused.

Dean frowned, wondering how to explain things. “I know it was the right thing to do, Sammy, letting you die, but I was in a bad place. And Crowley and Methos, well, they watched over me.” It was weird that he was saying all this stuff so easily. Normally it would take a crowbar to get this mushy stuff out of him. Dean glanced up to see Sam looking at him with so much warmth, it took Dean’s breath.

Sam slung his arm around Dean. “I know it was hard for you, and I know I left you all alone, and I know how much you hate that. You’re really okay?”

Dean shrugged. “I’m okay. It sucks, but every time it starts to get really bad, one of them shows up.”

“Crowley and Methos?”

“Or Death.”

“Be careful,” Sam warned him. “He’s still Death.”

“I know. But he’s all right. And I can’t believe I’m saying that, but they’re…they’re making sure I’m all right.” He laughed. “This guy tried to attack me with a sword, and Death showed up, touched the sword and it fell apart into a million little metal balls. It was awesome.”

Sam just stared at him for a long moment. “Hmm. I know I said he was sweet on you, but is he really sweet on you?”

Now it was Dean’s turn to stare. “I don’t even know what to say to that. He’s Death, Sammy. He’s not buying me flowers.”

“No, he buys you fast food, and saves your life, and sent you to me.” He grinned toothily. “Sounds like courtin’ behavior to me.”

Dean sighed. “It’s not like that. He already told me he’s not a sexual being.”

“Wow! How did that come up?” Sam shot him an even bigger grin. “Or did something else come up?” He nudged Dean with his elbow, his eyebrows wiggling.

Dean covered his face with his hands. “Can we stop? Please. This is disturbing on so many levels.”

Sniggering, Sam slung his arm around Dean’s shoulder. “Sure, Dean. I just want an invitation to the wedding.”

“Speaking of weddings,” Dean said, desperate to change the topic, “when you are two kids getting married?”

“Mom and Jess are working on a date.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “For what? Do you have to rent a chapel or something? I thought there’d be one on every street corner.”

“I don’t ask,” Sam said. “They’re having fun planning things, and I just intend to show up.”

“Smart man,” Dean said. He felt fuzzy for a second. “Oops, either I’m waking up, or my time’s up. It was good to see you.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” Sam said, giving Dean another back-breaking hug.

And then Dean opened his eyes and found himself in his hotel room, but he didn’t feel like he’d been asleep and dreaming. His meeting with Sam was clear as crystal in his mind, and it felt as if Sam just lived around the corner. It was great and horrible at the same time, because Sam didn’t live around the corner.

He glanced around to see if Death was on his couch eating corn chips, but he was alone. He’d eaten dinner so late he wasn’t hungry yet, so he opened the laptop to see what information he could find on the hunt. Maybe when he was done here, he’d head up to Seattle and go have a burger at Joe’s bar. He seemed like a good guy, even if he was stupid enough to make a deal for his soul. As a bonus, maybe McCloud would be there so Dean could give him some more shit.

*****


End file.
